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Mrs. Mackenzie’s “Trust 



A FAMILY DILEMMA 

A STOE Y FOB GIRLS 




BY V^ 

LUCY C^tlLLIE 


AUTHOR OF “ESTHER’S FORTUNE,” “THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER,” 
“FOR HONOR’S SAKE,” ETC., ETC., ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA 

PORTER & COATES 


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Copyright, 1894, 

BY 

PORTER & COATES. 


ELSIE MAY ESCIIBACH, 
"with “aunt lucy’s” dealest love. 


New York, 1894, 


























A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


i. 

Sarah opened the door of the Malone dwelling in Daw- 
son’s Block and stood a moment gazing up and down the 
familiar roadway, while she rejoiced over a piece of good 
luck w’hich had fallen in her way. It w T as one of those 
mild days which occur between the last parts of the 
winter, with a sky of dazzling fairness — sunshine like 
filtered gold and a crisp look to every twig and tree 
branch, as though they were warm with the secret of an 
early spring. All nature seemed alert and joyously expect- 
ant and the figure of Mrs. Malone’s “dead brother’s 
child,” as she called Sarah, framed in the doorway of the 
old house, looked young and bright enough certainly to 
take part in the blitheness of the morning. 

But quick, good-humored, and independent though she 
might be, the youngest Miss Malone had not a touch of 
that sort of poetry in her composition which, responding 
to the loveliness of nature, would feel vague stirrings of 
delight. That the day was warm for the season and 
exhilarating Sarah appreciated, no doubt, as the sparkle of 
her black eyes and the little swing of her foot gave lively 
testimony, but affairs of a very different character were 
occupying her mind at that moment. As I have said, an 
unexpected piece of good luck had fallen in her way, and 


2 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


the question Sarah was addressing to the sunshiny silence 
about her was how to take the best advantage of it. 

Away up to the left of Dawson’s Block, and where the 
Nautuck Hills began their first wooded enclosures, Sarah 
could see, in sharp outline against the radiant sky, the 
roof-tops and chimneys of the Hill House, by which 
uninteresting name Colonel Dyker’s fine old dwelling 
was known and honored for miles around. The very fact 
that it was seldom occupied by the family lent it addi- 
tional importance, since inexhaustible indeed must be the 
resources of a gentleman who could afford to leave such a 
place virtually closed for the greater part of twelve years. 
It had been cared for in the strictest manner by three 
elderly people, Peter Knapp, his wife, and their widowed 
daughter, Mrs. Keyes. Now, however, this state of 
things was all to be changed. Only that very morning an 
open wagon from the Hill House had drawn up on the 
corner of Dawson’s Block, and Mrs. Knapp, a tall bright- 
eyed matron of forty-five, had disappeared within Mrs. 
Tom Bird’s doorway adjoining the Malones’, coming out 
in a few moments to rap briskly on the latter’s kitchen 
door and make known her errand. 

Could the widow’s daughter, Aggie, come up to the 
Ilill House for a day or two and help prepare for the 
rather unexpected return of the family? 

Aggie and her mother were away for the day. It w r as 
Sarah who received the visitor — Sarah who was keeping 
house and guarding the slumbers of the widow’s precious 
infant son, Michael — keeping house very tidily 7 ’, too, for 
Sarah w T as one of those natural born housewives who 
have the gift of order and cleanliness as a birthright. 
Mrs. Knapp took it all in at a glance: the bright little 
kitchen, gleaming stove, and shining array of tins and 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


3 


crockery within the cupboard whose door Sarah had just 
opened. The tall darkeyed girl of sixteen or seventeen, 
perhaps, looked a very cheery and capable housewife 
pro tem. 

Sarah listened with polite attention to what Mrs. Knapp 
had to say. 

“Isn’t it too bad!” she exclaimed, putting the teacup 
and dishcloth in her hand down to draw a chair forward 
for the visitor. “My cousin’s out, ma’am, you see, but 
it’s just for the day ” 

“Why wouldn’t you do?” said Mrs. Knapp. “I 
shouldn’t think your aunt would mind, and you see I 
must get someone. You look smart. It’s more to help me 
clean up and then run about for a day or two and wait on 
the ladies when they come.” 

Sarah’s dark eyes snapped and sparkled. She was well 
aware that it was a chance not to be lost, the Hill House 
embodying all of remote grandeur and distinction which 
she knew’. There seemed but one drawback — Mikey 
Malone — at present wrapped in peacefully unconscious 
slumber. But even here the fates were propitious, for at 
that very moment the gate clicked and Alice Bird, a 
neighbor’s lame little daughter, came slowly up the narrow 
bit of walk. Many a kindly turn had Sarah done for 
Alice, and very gladly did the young girl come to her 
friend’s rescue now. Of course, she could and would take 
charge of the precious heir of the Malones; not only that, 
but Alice undertook to explain precisely what had hap- 
pened to his parent and his elder sister. 

“Now, then, spring up, my good girl,” called out Mrs. 
Knapp from the wagon w r hich she had entered while 
Sarah made her final arrangements, packing a small 
bundle with feverish haste. Indeed, she only breathed 


4 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


quite freely when they were well along the road, since 
at any moment an unexpected detention might have 
occurred. 

“I guess you are smart and spry,” Mrs. Knapp said, 
with a peculiar one-sided sort of smile, as soon as they 
had passed the first turning. “You look it — and I’ll tell 
you just what it is you have to do. Old Miss Dyker and 
Miss Jean are coming home and the Colonel’s adopted 
daughter, Miss Polly, and the girls ’ll want a deal of wait- 
ing on unless they’re made over new since I last saw 
them. It’s run here and run there, and give me this and 
pick up that! Dear, dear! the place ’ll be all put about,” 
sighed Mrs. Knapp discontentedly. But to Sarah such a 
prospect seemed cheerful in the extreme! Surely it could 
not be anything but pleasant, even amusing, to do the 
bidding of these young ladies, both of whom were the 
Colonel’s nieces. 

“And, then there’s the party — not a very large one, as 
you might say, but big enough, the dear knows, to be a 
bother. Colonel, he thinks it’s all easy, because he orders 
things by the wholesale from Albany, but I tell you 
there’s mor’n eating to one of their parties! We won’t 
get straightened out for a hull month.” 

Sarah tried hard, but, as can readily be understood, 
found it difficult to be properly sympathetic, since the 
prospect revealed only what was enchanting to her mind, 
but she turned her bright young face up to the wrinkled 
one beside her, saying, “Oh, dear me/” w r ith a very elderly 
sort of manner which stimulated her companion, as Sarah 
wished it might, to explain who the various members of 
the family were. 

“l r ou see,” Mrs. Knapp continued, “old Miss Dyker, 
she’s the Colonel’s aunt. Well, she adopted one niece, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


5 


that’s Miss Jean. Then he ups and adopts Miss Polly. 
She’s another niece. There was another — well, that’s a 
story of long ago. Seems as if it just run in the Dyker 
blood to pick up with other folk’s children! The other 
one — Sarah, she was called — well, she run away and 
married beneath her, and was lost sight of, 1 guess. But 
I have heard Miss Dyker was huntin’ for a child of hers, 
not having done enough, I suppose, first and last in the line 
of adoption — and — why, even Colonel, he’s gone to work 
and sent a strange young man right through and through 
college.” 

Mrs. Knapp spoke as though firearms might have been 
used upon this last vicarious charge, and nodded at her 
attentive if somewhat bewildered listener, with a grim air 
of “summing up” the family peculiarities, but again 
Sarah’s little “Dear, dear!” was all she could find to say, 
and by this time they were entering the great gateway of 
the Hill House, and five moments later had driven up to a 
small side door. Mrs. Knapp relaxed her hold upon the 
reins as briskly as she had taken them up, and waited 
until the sound of their coming brought Mrs. Keyes to 
the door. 

She was a tall, faded-looking young woman, a complete 
contrast to her mother, who spoke, as Sarah soon learned, 
always in a peculiarly loud and decided voice when ad- 
dressing her, as though she felt it necessary to keep her 
wide awake. 

“Now, see here, Maria,” exclaimed Mrs. Knapp, “this 
is Mrs. Bird’s daughter. No, that aint just it; it’s a 
friend of hers— a young girl who can fly around spry and 
help. Now, then, jump out, my dear.” 

Mrs. Keyes smiled faintly, with her head very much on 
one side, and shook it slowly— whether in admiration of 


6 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


her mother’s good management or by way of welcome it 
was difficult to tell. 

Ten minutes later, however, while Sarah stood before 
the great kitchen fire, fairly speechless with admiration 
of all she saw about her, every thought was sent flying by 
an exclamation from Mrs. Knapp, who had opened a tele- 
gram waiting for her on the table. 

4 ‘My sakes alive! Gracious! If that aint just like 
’em,” she exclaimed, tugging wildly at her hat strings, 
“here they go to work, never come nigh the place for 
years , and then plump down on us all in a blessed born 
minute ! Whatever shall I do without so much as a pie to 
the fore, and the whole kit and crew of ’em to be here, 
it says, at 5 . 30 . Now, Maria,” she concluded, wheel- 
ing around desperately upon her daughter, while Sarah 
listened with intense interest, “I tell you for once you’ve 
got to brace up and get to work. Mooning about is all 
very well when there’s only empty rooms to be gaped at, 
but it won’t do when every chair in the house may be sot 
upon before to-morrow night.” 


II. 


Saraii never will forget the charmed excitement of that 
morning, when she flew about with a good will, running 
back and forth and up and down at the bidding of Mrs. 
Knapp or Mrs. Keyes, while the great house was revealed 
bit by bit, and the young girl from Dawson’s Block got 
over her first almost dismay at seeing her own thin, 
brisk little figure so often repeated in the mirrors of the 
long beautiful drawing room, or those set panel-wise in 
the folding doors between the dining room and the 
Colonel’s special library, and ceased to feel so spellbound 
and bewildered over the varied elegancies the faded 
splendors brought to light, even though they filled her with 
unspeakable admiration, waking up that love of the won- 
derful in the young girl, which did duty for a feeling such 
as might have revealed the poetic side of life and nature 
with a deeper charm. 

It was all like living in a story book Sarah could not 
help feeling, and she polished the great, shining staircase 
in the entrance hall, allowing herself, when no one was by, 
the delight of walking up and down it slowly and “like a 
lady,” smiling and bowing to an imaginary cavalier and 
feeling as if she was really of great consequence. “Oh, 
my, no , sir,” she responded, in answer to an imaginary 
inquiry on her partner’s part if she felt too tired to dance 
again. “I guess not. I’m sure you’re awfully kind!” 
and putting up her hand she twirled around and around and 
about, humming an air under her quickly drawn breath. 

7 


8 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


But this, of course, was only momentary. There was 
too much actual work to be done, and Sarah was realty too 
fond of activity not to lend a willing pair of hands. More- 
over, she had caught the fire of Mrs. Knapp’s anxiety 
about this unexpected home-coming, and quite appre- 
ciated the fact, as her employer explained it to her, that 
“Colonel would expect things to be all ready and in wait- 
ing, or there’d be a precious how do you do about it!” 

Sarah looked on in wonder at the way in which Peter 
Knapp accepted all his wife’s suggestions, doing her bid- 
ding as though he had long been waiting for just such a 
day as this, only insisting upon plenty of time to get out 
the old-fashioned family carriage and clean it thoroughly 
for its first journey in many a day. 

When Peter was at last ready to start with it to the 
Junction Station two miles below, Mrs. Knapp calmed 
down long enough to watch it start away, pride beaming 
in her expression. She grew almost affectionate in her 
manner as she and Sarah turned back to the house. 

“Time enough that carriage gave its wheels a chance, I 
should say,” she exclaimed. “Now then we’ll swift a look 
upstairs, Sarah. Aint you never called Salty? Well, it 
can’t be helped, I suppose, now,” as Sarah absently shook 
her head. “We’ll just make sure every room’s right, and 
I’ll tell you all about them so you won’t be waking the 
Colonel up, let’s say, if it’s Miss Jean’s bell that rung.” 

She preceded the happy Sarah up the staircase, and flung 
open door after door of the rooms opening on to the wide 
hall. 

“Here’s Colonel’s room all right,” a sombre looking 
but very commodious apartment, with a glimmer of 
heavy old brass in picture frames and mantel ornaments, 
mahogany and rich dark colors in the furniture. “Yes, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 9 

and here’s his dressing room,” and at the next, “Here’s old 
Miss Dyker’s,” a large severely plain but very commo- 
dious and well-appointed room; “and here, this is Miss 
Polly’s, you see, Sarah,” a square little room at the upper 
end of the hall; “and here’s the room Miss Jean — Lord 
love her — has always had, right next! All those chiney 
figures on the mantel and the things on the little dressing 
table are her very own, and this pink and gray chintz, 
that’s her own choice, and,” descending two steps to a 
corridor in a small wing, “here are three company rooms.” 

One after another was entered and subjected to the proc- 
ess called by Mrs. Knapp “swifting” a look, not inaptly, 
if the truth were known, her peculiar phraseology having 
the merit of fitness; for her eyes darted with lightning 
rapidity from point to point, taking in everything, sending 
her flying across to straighten a picture or shake out a 
curtain fold where needed, while Sarah looked on, still 
appreciative and wondering. 

The rooms were all so evidently fashioned for comfort 
and cheerful occupancy that it seemed pity enough they 
were so seldom used, and Mrs. Knapp, as she reopened the 
door of Miss Jean’s pink and white bower, remarked upon 
this, turning suddenly as Sarah, who was just behind her, 
uttered a cry, an exclamation of bewilderment — or was it 
fright? 

“My gracious /” exclaimed Mrs. Knapp; “ speak! 
What’s the matter with the girl!” 

But Sarah’s eyes were fixed, riveted on a picture unno- 
ticed before, and which hung in a recess near the western 
window. 

It was the portrait of a man, young in years, yet with 
a peculiar, grave nobility of expression. The face was 
thin, clear cut and sensitive in outline, dark in coloring, 


10 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


lighted by a pair of keen hazel eyes, at once mirthful and 
yet intense in their glance; not eyes which even in a 
picture could, once seen, be easily forgotten, and Sarah’s 
heart beat wildly as she thought of another portrait with 
just those eyes, just that gentle, quiet mouth — the same 
broad, white brow and loosely -waving dark brown hair — 
the same alert, noble poise of the head ! It seemed 
impossible, but surely it must be the same! And then 
suddenly the girl’s presence of mind came back with a 
rush, and Sarah’s frightened, puzzled eyes were turned 
upon the old housekeeper. 

“Oh, it was because it’s so like a picture I’ve — I’ve 
seen,” faltered Sarah, the crimson dyeing her cheeks as 
she spoke. 

“A picture you've seen," demanded Mrs. Knapp curi- 
ously, “like this, you say?” 

Sarah, more and more composed in manner, could only 
nod her head, but she still continued to gaze at the por- 
trait. 

“Well, upon my word,” the housekeeper was begin- 
ning, when, fortunately for Sarah’s peace of mind, a wild 
call from Mrs. Keyes below reminded Mrs. Knapp that 
time was flying and “the family” might even now be on 
their way up the avenue itself. 

“Come, come, my dear,” she. exclaimed anxiously, “I 
declare I believe we’re going to pay in a day’s hurrying 
for ten years’ dawdling.” 

“There they be, mother,” fairly shrieked Mrs. Keyes, 
and five minutes later the two women had contrived to 
light the main jets in the great hall, and fling open the 
seldom-used front door. Sarah hovered in the distance, 
hidden from view but where she could see all the kaleido- 
scopic effects which followed. 


III. 


If silence and darkness had reigned in the main rooms 
of the Hill House for years, they were, it would seem, to 
be banished now, for in a moment the hallway was full of 
sound and movement, voices and laughter. There was 
“Colonel,” as Mrs. Knapp called him, a tall, fine-looking 
elderly man, fairly enveloped in a fur greatcoat, and who 
came forward promptly to shake hands with his old house- 
keeper and her daughter. Directly after him was a slim, 
upright, brisk old lady, the Miss Dyker of whom Sarah 
had heard, the veiy gleam of whose spectacles looked 
shrewd and kindly as she rapidly asked questions, wait- 
ing, however, for no answers; and just behind them the 
very prettiest young lady Sarah thought she had ever seen : 
not very tall, slender and dainty from the crown of her 
fur toque to the tip of her cloth boot; her fair, soft little 
face looking out upon everything and everybody with 
dimpling smiles and that delicious radiance of happy r 
y^outh which is like the music of some joyous melody. 
Sarah fell in love with this dazzling, sweet young creature 
on the spot, and was well prepared to hear she was 
“Colonel’s” cherished darling and heiress — the “Miss 
Polly,” talked of so much among the servants and for 
whose sake he had long been a wanderer in summer climes. 
Hut if a trifle delicate, she certainly looked or seemed 
no invalid now, and her voice as she turned, calling out, 
“Where is Jean? Cousin Dick, what have you done with 
Jean?” was fresh and clear as a bell— sweet, too, in spite 


11 


12 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


of a touch of imperiousness — an outward token of the 
sovereignty of the Colonel’s petted darling, and when, in 
answer to her demand, a tall good looking young fellow 
in a fur cap and long ulster hustled forward, saying: “My 
dear Polly, Jean as usual is taking care of herself,” there 
came from the last of the group a quick gay laugh as Jean 
Gamier moved forward on this little scene of action so 
important, bewildering, fascinating to the stranger looking 
on from the shadow of the staircase. A young lady of 
twenty, perhaps, was this final figure in the picture form 
ing itself before Sarah’s eager eyes — taller than Miss Polly, 
but with the same slim grace of manner; less regularly 
pretty, but with something more attractive about her clear 
dark face, soft hazel eyes, pert little nose and lovely red 
lips parting on the whitest teeth — and when Miss Dyker 
said, “Well, Jean; I’m glad you’ve allowed me to come 
home,” how everyone laughed and how the beautiful old 
house seemed to wake up to a new life — a new sense of 
value and the usefulness long denied it! 

“Everything looks finely, Mrs. Knapp,” the Colonel was 
saying as he flung his greatcoat on the hall table and 
looked around with satisfaction. “Jones [the Colonel’s own 
man] — has attended to matters in Albany, but I thought 
you would see to your own department without my inter- 
ference. Your own way is generally the best.” 

A speech which inspired Mrs. Knapp — as “Colonel” 
well knew it would — to unlimited efforts in the direction 
of his biddings and made her wrinkled face a network of 
smiling content on the instant. 

“And who is this?” said the still gracious master of 
the house, his keen glance resting on our friend Sarah, who 
made a timid step forward and then drew back, blushing 
crimson. I am afraid her rehearsal of “company 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


13 


manners” on the staircase was quite forgotten for the 
moment. 

“Oh, it’s Mrs. Bird’s daughter, sir,” said Mrs. Knapp 
hastily, once more forgetting Sarah’s “Malone” ancestry. 
“A very spry young girl, sir, as I got in to help wait on 
the young ladies.” 

“ Very thoughtful indeed,” said the Colonel, and Miss 
Polly bustled forward now saying — “Oh, to wait on us”; 
but in reality being very curious about everything and 
everybody in her uncle’s house, the young lady was only 
anxious to take a good look at Sarah. 

“I’m sure I’m very glad, Mrs. Knapp,” she observed. 
“For Cecile has stayed over in Albany to see some tire- 
some friend who is ill there.” 

Grand young Princess of the Hill House Polly Dyker 
might be, but there was the instinct of her “far East” 
ancestry in her veins and she dearly loved to know all the 
“ins and outs” of everything, the details of all the lives 
going on about her. Polly would be quite as much inter- 
ested, when Cecile returned, to hear her “news” as she 
would be to know what Jean Gamier had been doing if 
absent; and Sarah being a newcomer, a stranger even to 
the Hill House, took on a special importance in the young 
lady’s eyes. It would be amusing to draw her out, dazzle 
her with her own brilliancy, and “hear all about” who and 
what she was herself, and so Miss Polly was pleased to be 
very gracious. 

“ Sarah , did you say ? Well, Sarah, here is my cloak, and 
— oh, but you had better see first to Miss Dyker and Miss 
Jean,” added Polly, whose good manners came to her mind 
suddenly. Moreover, she was anxious to have everyone 
aware from the very first that it was she, “little Polly” 
no longer, but Miss Dyker (No. 2) who was the “young 


14 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


lady of the house” — its master’s acknowledged heiress — 
she who was in effect welcoming them as guests, doing the 
honors of the Hill House and seeing to their various com- 
forts — but as their hostess. Jean’s fine little brows drew 
together, and she held her head unusually high as she 
moved forward, not knowing quite what to do; but well 
aware that dear old Aunt Ellen ought to take precedence 
at once. 

“Very well, Polly,” said Jean, nodding her head. “If 
Sarah likes to take my little bag along with yours I’ve no 
objection. Aunt Ellen,” she added, “you’re rather tired, 
I’m afraid.” 

Polly’s lovely little face colored. With all her carefully 
laid plans she had overlooked what was really her first 
duty as the “young lady of the house,” but she flew 
toward Miss Dyker now, anxious to repair her mistake. 

“Oh, Aunt Ellen, don’t touch a thing P ’ she exclaimed. 
“Here, Sarah, take Miss Dyker’s shawl. Oh, you really 
must let her — and is her room all ready? Where is Mrs. 
Knapp?” she continued, glancing about quickly. “Oh, 
there you are, Mrs. Knapp! Is Miss Dyker’s room ready? 
She is tired ” 

And in spite of some faint movements meant as protes- 
tations on the part of old Miss Dyker and even Jean her- 
self, Polly carried the day — as she had planned to do — and 
before they w T ere half an hour in the old homestead had 
made everyone feel that it wass/*e, Polly, or “Miss Dyker,” 
as she tried to be called when her aunt was not by, w r ho 
was mistress and hostess as well, she to whom the guests 
might look for their comfort, the servants for their 
authority and commands; and as for the Colonel, he 
looked on, only half seeing the little byplay: the dra- 
matic coup of his youngest niece, the discomfiture and 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


15 


annoyance visible on some of the faces. But above and 
beyond all things Colonel Dyker liked to be “amused”; 
and it was so harmless and so “funny” to see that 
“child,” as he called her, assuming those airs of young 
ladyhood and hostess-ship — “and doing it so well too, I 
declare,” laughed the Colonel to himself. As for Miss Dyker, 
she resigned herself without much effort into the place of 
guest, to which the now energetic Polly relegated her, for 
she was really tired and anxious to be “looked after” 
by somebody; and Mrs. Knapp led the way, Polly 
and the eager Sarah following, the rest loitering — for 
Polly could not really carry them off to their various 
rooms against their wills. 

“Oh, is this Miss Dyker’s room?” said Polly with a 
little quaver of disappointment in her tone as the house- 
keeper ushered them into the largest, most commodious 
apartment. She could hardly object, but it Hashed 
through Polly’s active mind suddenly that before Jean 
came up she had better be certain where she was to be 
installed. 

“And here’s your dear little room, miss,” said Mrs. 
Knapp blandly, opening the door of the little square 
“nest” at the end of the hall. Polly’s eyes gave a quick 
Hash and then she turned, remembering her role of gracious, 
condescending young Princess Royal. 

“Oh, no, Mrs. Knapp,” she exclaimed. “I don’t think 
that is the room my uncle intended for me. Let me see.” 
And she moved toward the pretty pink-aud-gray room 
beyond, of which the firelight and candle glow made a 
charming picture. 

“Here, I’ll take my things off for the present. I 
think,” she added quickly, with another of her pretty 
smiles, “Mis? Jean will like best to be in there, close to 


16 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


her aunt, you know. Please put that little bag of Miss 
Jean’s, Sarah, down in a safe place.” 

And when, ten minutes later, Jean disengaged herself 
from a talk with Dick Appleton, it was all settled. Polly 
was already moving about her old room with as complete 
an air of proprietorship as though she had reigned over it 
for years, and Jean could only force back her instinctive 
remonstrance, remembering, with a sigh, that after all 
times were changed. It was not by any means “little 
Polly,” their uncle’s spoiled “baby” and pet who had 
come home, but, as she had already made everyone aware, 
from Peter Knapp at the station to the new lady’s maid, 
Sarah, it was his acknowledged heiress — the young mis- 
tress of the Hill House — the hostess of the Colonel’s 
guests, be they members of the family or only friends. 


I V. 


Polly was not sorry to be alone for a few moments 
after that swift taking possession of her new abode. She 
wanted a moment or two of quiet in which to review the 
situation and collect her forces. For she was by far too 
astute a young person not to be aware that, as yet, her 
conquest was not complete. She had struck the first blow 
and captured the first redoubt, but there remained that 
important outpost of the enemy — the kitchen department 
— yet to be reconnoitred. Aunt Ellen would give in, of 
course. Polly had no fears where that dear old lady was 
concerned — and Jean — well, Jean would do battle, no 
doubt. However, Polly rather liked the idea of such war- 
fare. She had long ached to “put Jean Gamier in her 
place,” and now, assuredly, was her opportunity. With 
Jean there would be some lively skirmishing, which Polly 
hoped to conduct with such an excess of politeness as to 
freeze out the enemy at once, but, as I have said, the main 
difficulty lay in the servants’ department. Old family 
retainers, like the Knapps, for instance, were not to be put 
down in an hour by the mere force of a girl’s will; and, 
moreover, as our young lady was keenly aware, her only 
hope of keeping her uncle on her side was in thoroughly 
attending to his material comforts. 

For the Colonel, a bit of recluse, fond of his books, and 
his rare “before the letter” engravings, his old china, his 
“specimens” of various kinds, was a very epicure of epi- 
cures where the questions of the table, household manage- 

2 17 


18 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


ment, home comforts of every kind, were concerned. 
For years he had indulged himself in so luxurious a mode 
of life that he had only been preserved from being dis- 
agreeably whimsical by his ability to gratify his tastes and 
an exquisite delicacy of feeling which prevented his 
wounding people with whom he came in contact. Har- 
mony, order, serenity, repose — these were attributes which 
had to belong to the Colonel’s system of things, and then, 
as I have said, he dearly liked to be amused! The peculi- 
arities, the oddities, even the prejudices of other people, 
were to the old man a constant source of amusement, and 
with the instinct of the born humorist, he liked the incon- 
gruous — the unexpected. The thought of sixteen-year-old 
Polly, with her mayflower face, her clear, ringing young 
voice, ruling the old family mansion, putting on such 
absurd airs all in a moment, condescending to dear old 
Miss Ellen, settling things for them all, amused him so 
much that he decided to “give the child her head,” and 
see what would come of it; but as Polly, taking counsel 
with herself that first half hour, was very well aware, it 
would never do to have the kitchen cabinet in rebellion. 
That would mean a disturbance of her uncle’s personal 
well-being, which was not to be thought of for a moment. 
It would also interfere with that role of something between 
a Princess Royal and a Lady Bountiful, which was Polly’s 
idea of the part, the station in life, she was called upon to 
fill. 

From the lower windows of her room — at least the one 
she meant henceforth to call hers — the young girl could 
look dowm into what seemed to be a yard way off the 
kitchen, to the left of which were the stables. It did not 
impress her as particularly favorable to all her little plans 
that there was in the chilly darkness, only dimly lighted 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


19 


by the stable lamp, a group of two or three people — the 
servants, of course — talking together. They were discuss- 
ing her, she felt sure, and blowing out her dressing-table 
candles, Polly pushed open her window, and, kneeling 
down, tried to catch the floating bits of talk from her 
newly captured subjects. Only a sentence or two, how- 
ever, reached her. She heard very plainly the words “to- 
morrow,” and then “Colonel’s no fool.” A laugh of 
derision followed, all of which I need scarcely say was not 
at all encouraging to the new sovereign. But it all made 
her the more determined to hold her own. Sarah’s voice 
at her back startled her and made her close the window 
with a bang, conscious that if her new maid suspected her 
of such eavesdropping she might thoroughly despise her. 

“Why, you’re all in the dark,” said Sarah very briskly, 
“and I just met the Colonel and he sent to hurry up the 
dinner; it’s going in at once, Mrs. Knapp said.” 

Polly made every haste now, with such slight altera- 
tion in her toilet as could be effected without opening her 
trunks. She was wearing a very pretty travelling costume 
of darkest claret-colored cloth, and a scarf of yellowish 
lace at her neck softened it becomingly. Sarah was still 
all admiration. 

“That looks just too sweet,” said Mrs. Malone’s niece, 
beaming approval. “I s’pose,” she ventured to add, 
“you’ll be putting on something gorgeous to-morrow, 
Miss Polly.” 

But to do her credit, Polly had very little personal 
vanity. Her arrogance was of quite another kind. 

“Oh, well,” she assented carelessly, “my uncle always 
expects me to dress well. Now, Sarah, go downstairs and 
tell Mrs. Knapp she may send in dinner — but wait a 
minute — where is my uncle — do yen know?” 


20 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“I see him just now at the hall lire,” said Sarah, who, 
truth to tell, hardly liked carrying such peremptory orders 
below. 

4 ‘Oh, very well, then,” said Polly quickly, “go on and 
do as I tell you — I’ll run down and speak to him myself.” 

Sarah’s disagreeable mission was not needed, much to 
her relief. At this moment the gong, so long silent in the 
fine old dining room, peeled softly forth. There w T as the 
sound of opening doors, and Polly made rather a breath- 
less descent into the hall in order to be there before her 
“guests.” She w 7 as almost ashamed of the way in which 
her heart "was beating quickly. Even while her uncle said 
something to the effect that he missed Jones already, she 
w r ondered how she should place the company, since, of 
course, the order of precedence must be established at 
once. This difficult point had, as it happened, already been 
debated in old Miss Dyker’s mind, and when they were 
all assembled in the dining-room, and there was a barely 
perceptible pause, Aunt Ellen spoke w 7 itli a clear, sweet 
ring to her voice which Jean thoroughly understood. 

“As Polly is keeping house for you, 1 suppose, James,” 
she said, addressing the Colonel, “she had better learn all 
her duties together and take the foot of the table.” 

Polly’s cheeks flamed now, and she said quickly, and 
with her sweetest manner: 

“Oh, of course, Aunt Ellen, I know what you mean; 
still, while you are with us, I’ll resign my rights, for, of 
course, you are our guest of honor.” 

Conscious of scoring another point, even in giving 
up the place w r hich surely ought to be her own, Polly 
herself drew out the high-back chair facing the Colonel’s, 
and scarcely knowing what she w r as doing — whether 
accepting a favor or asserting her rights — Miss Dyker 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


21 


sank into it and it would have been hard to say whether 
amusement or annoyance was uppermost in the minds of 
the others at this very odd scene. 

There was, however, no question at all in Jean’s mind 
as to it’s being high time to say or do something, and as 
soon as the rather tiresome meal was over she captured 
Dick Appleton, whirling him away into the splendid draw- 
ing room, where, in the midst of so much confusion, the 
fire had nearly died out from the hearth, and there she 
demanded of him “ what was to be done.” 

The sight of Jean’s altogether useless rage, her indig- 
nation, her wrath, which had made her for once careless 
of all the little airs and graces to which she had of late 
been treating Dick, made the young fellow forget the 
simple fun he had been taking out of Miss Polly’s coup 
d'etat, but, as he declared, what could be done? 

“For you see Jennie, my child,” said the young lawyer, 
trying to possess himself of one of Jean’s hands, “brassy 
as it looks, your Cousin Polly certainly has something of 
the rights of the case. The Colonel has been proclaiming 
her as his heiress; consequently, if he chooses to let her be 
mistress of the house, I really do not see how any one of 
us can possibly interfere. She is decidedly in her rights 
when she calls us” — he had to laugh — “her guests.” 

“ Her guests!” repeated Jean, her soft hazel eyes flash- 
ing fire. “What — Aunt Ellen, for example, the guest, and 
in the Ilill House, of that little goose?” 

Before Dick could answer, the door was flung open by 
the very object of their discussion herself. Polly came in 
beaming, breathless, and excited. A tall, severely clerical- 
looking gentleman followed the young girl, with an air 
which was half bewildered, half confused, yet evidently 
he was well enough pleased. 


22 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


He held his hat in his hand while he looked from one to 
another of the little party with an almost apologetic manner. 
Something in his smile, which, as Dick remarked later, 
would have made his fortune as an undertaker, chilled our 
friends on the instant. 

'“You are here, are you?” exclaimed Poll} 1- , with a little 
laugh. “I declare, you do look like a genuine pair of con- 
spirators! Mr. Bounce,” she continued in a very bland 
manner, “this is my cousin, Miss Gamier, and our friend, 
Mr. Bichard Appleton, who has come for a day or two.” 

“Am 1 not a cousin, too, Polly,” laughed Dick, wonder- 
ing who the suave-looking stranger might he, “no matter 
how many times removed?” 

But Polly only tossed her pretty head and shrugged her 
shoulders. She had no doubt whatever as to the nature of 
the tete-a-tete so fortunately interrupted. 

“I will send for my uncle, sir, at once,” she said to the 
stranger, and in the same moment whirled away again. 

The visitor drew near to the smouldering ashes on the 
hearth, and, like the person in the Bab ballad, “continued 
to smile,” while Bichard, shooting a glance of mingled 
rage and amusement over his head at the almost statuesque 
Jean, murmured something about a “call in the village.” 

“Ah — ahem,” said Mr. Bounce, “are you much 
acquainted hereabouts, sir, might I ask?” 

“In Thornton, do you mean?” asked the young man 
politely. “ Well, I was born here and my nearest rela- 
tives are here; at the same time I have lived out West a 
good part of my life.” 

“Ah — just so; then you may be considered a Thornton 
Appleton, I suppose.” 

“My father was the Bev. Peter Appleton of St. 
George’s,” said Bichard gravely. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


23 


“And this young lady,” continued the amiable Rounce, 
oblivious to Dick’s growing wrath — “is she also an Apple- 
ton? I didn’t catch the name.” 

Dick’s handsome face flushed, and he looked with a most 
absurd glance in Jean’s direction. 

“Not — as yet, sir,” he murmured, while Jean 
darted what was meant to be a withering glance 
upon him. 

“I am Jean Gamier,” she said haughtily. 

“Oh, yes' — yes — yes,” said the stranger, nodding his 
head; “of course. Let me see! A wonderfully clannish 
family this! Now, as I understand it, the branches of the 
family tree blossom as follows” — he held up one large, 
comfortable-looking hand, extending every finger, while 
with a very bland smile he proceeded to dock off the vari- 
ous branches of the house of Dyker: “Colonel Dyker” — 
here he slowly wiggled his thumb — “sole survivor of the 
old squire’s four children, two sons and two daughters. 
Right! Thomas Djker, married — died — leaving a 
daughter, Miss Polty. Our friend, the Colonel” — other- 
wise the same vigorously shaken thumb — “never married, 
but had numerous vicarious family charges. He adopted 
Miss Polly. Then there was Lois Dyker ” 

Jean waved her hand with a peculiar manner, scarcely 
raising her eyelids. 

“My mother, sir. If it is important for you to be so 
genealogical, she married Captain Frederick Gamier, and 
I am their only surviving child. My parents died many 
years ago.” 

“Precisely — and then — there was another daughter of 
the Colonel’s parents.” The stranger glanced half fur- 
tively over his shoulder. “ Sarah , I believe, w r as her 
name. She ” 


24 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Jean’s eyes flashed unmistakably now, while Dick’s lips 
drew together sharply. 

“My Aunt Sarah, sir,” said the girl, lifting her young 
head with all the Dyker hauteur in the action, “made a — 
well — perhaps unhappy marriage and died years ago.” 

“Exactly,” said the imperturbable Mr. Rounce; “it 
happens every day in the week, my dear; nothing surpris- 
ing at all in it; but what is strange is that in such a clan- 
nish family Sarah should have been so completely wiped 
out — forgotten — put out of sight and mind, so to speak! 
Oh, yes, 1 know your grandfather vowed vengeance and 
all that kind of thing, but I was under the impression 
your uncle here had been really instructed by your grand- 
father to hunt up Sarah or her possible family.” 

Dick Appleton turned around sharply from the window, 
where he had been standing. Whoever or whatever this 
man might be, his impertinence in cross-examining Jean 
was intolerable, and should come to a standstill then and 
there. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said with ill-concealed 
disgust, “hut these are family matters my cousin and I are 
scarcely called upon to discuss with strangers. Colonel 
Dyker, I presume, will see you presently. Jean,” he 
added, looking at that young lady, “if you really wish to 
see Mrs. Mackenzie to-night we ought to start at once to 
get back before nine o’clock.” 

“Oh — Mrs. Mackenzie,” exclaimed the visitor genially. 
He was entirely above minding young Appleton’s wrath, it 
would appear. “The clergyman’s widow who lives almost 
at the gate? A nice woman, as I remember her, and a 
mine of information in regard to county matters and 
families.” 

What desperate means Richard might have used to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


25 


force his cousin away 1 dare noli conjecture,' had not the 
Colonel’s step sounded along the hall, the ever-active Polly 
flying in his wake. 

But for once the “young lady of the house” was not 
permitted to assert herself. Just at the very door the 
Colonel turned and said quietly: 

“Polly, my dear, I have a little business alone with this 
gentleman. Run away, my dear — there’s a good girl.” 

And as Jean and her cousin appeared Polly flung herself 
away, afraid of their discovering she was not wanted, so 
that her cousins made their own escape a little later unre- 
marked by anyone in the great, now almost silent, house. 


y. 


Mrs. Mackenzie occupied a position both in the county 
and the village of Thornton, to which the Hill House really 
belonged, which was so peculiar that a few words of 
explanation are certainly allowable, although I can never 
hope to make my readers quite understand just why 
things around and about that lady were precisely as they 
were. No one, so far as I ever heard, did attempt any 
definition or even explanation of it. It simply was. That 
was all there could be offered to enquiring strangers who 
at first wondered and commented upon the fact that she 
was treated by everyone far and wide as a person of such 
importance, such social, mental, diplomatic, even literary, 
consequence, since, judged by externals, there seemed 
nothing in especial, not even the lady’s own inclination, 
to warrant it. There was not even the prestige — the 
descent of her husband’s cloak, so to speak — upon her 
shoulders, for the Rev. Job Mackenzie had been the most 
negative of men, living, preaching, even dying, mildly, 
and like a gentleman. That was all that could be said of 
him, and indeed it was not until his death that his wife’s 
peculiar power made itself felt, moving people to observe 
that if she had only asserted herself a little more during 
his lifetime she might have seen him a bishop. But this 
was not at all in Mrs. Mackenzie’s line. She was the last 
woman in the world to advocate a failure, such as the Rev. 
Job would unquestionably have been in any high episco- 
pal office. Perhaps the real secret of her greatness of 

26 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


27 


mind, her capacity, lay in her never attempting to for- 
ward a hopeless cause, although people often came to her 
in despair, nor seeking a field too large for her special 
abilities to work in. That her husband filled the not quite 
obscure position of rector of Thornton admirably was a 
source of the greatest pride to her, since under no circum- 
stances would she have liked to appear as the better fellow 
of the tw 7 o, finding it much more to her liking to have people 
congratulate her on her husband’s excellent qualities than 
to be compelled to push him forward in a field where his 
kind of talent and amiability would have been hopelessly 
astray. 

In Thornton Mrs. Mackenzie’s own talents were decid- 
edly above the average. Her sympathies were larger than 
those of the people she met every day. Her keen, shrewd 
common-sense, her good nature, were most valuable, and 
then — her tact! Even in that place it was far better than 
a large fortune, since by means of it she understood 
everything and everybody, became a valued counsellor, a 
kindly friend, a genial companion, and yet always held 
herself just a trifle back, a little bit shut off — or was it 
above the others? It was certainly nothing that anyone 
could question or be wounded by, but just something 
which made it agreeable to really bask in the full sunshine 
of her confidence and favor. When it is understood that 
Mrs. Mackenzie held a position of such authority and 
importance in Thornton, Nan tuck, and indeed the very 
county itself, the oldest Albanians recognizing and admir- 
ing it, it will be seen that the Rev. Job’s widow must 
have been a remarkable woman, for she had neither wealth 
nor beauty at her command. But the sources of her income, 
if not such as to make any increase of money probable, 
were so well assured that there was never a qualm in 


28 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


these days, as there once had been, as to the well-being of 
the morrow, and accordingly Mrs. Mackenzie could afford 
to be very good-humored, sympathetic, and practical in 
her role of general adviser and friend, and yet indulge 
herself in certain ways which gave her importance of a 
kind such as I have mentioned. She subscribed for various 
magazines and periodicals, including foreign quarterlies. 
The newest books were to be found on her table. She 
always had tickets for the best lectures and Recitals dur- 
ing her visits to New York or Albany. Various seeds- 
men sent her specimens of the newest roses, hybrids, etc., 
on their lists, since her knowledge and skill in the care 
and life of plants were so thoroughly understood that she 
was urged to report on the results of every grafting. 
When a certain rose was brought out, starting its life a 
rich deep crimson, but gradually growing purplish in tint, 
Mrs. Mackenzie was one of the first persons consulted as 
to what could be done, or whether such a rose was worth 
going on with, and she found herself in receijrt of almost 
too many letters from people anxious in the matter to have 
time to answer. Last, but not least, her cook was a veri- 
table cordon bleu , trained to that perfection by Mrs. 
Mackenzie herself, who, admitting her table was the sim- 
plest, ^declared herself an epicure as to the way in which 
even a chop and a potato were cooked and served. 

This suggestion of absolute good taste, which impressed 
even casual acquaintances, was carried out by the little 
house itself. It was only a cottage, and so close to the 
Colonel’s gates that it might seem to have been over- 
shadowed by the Hill House grandeur and luxuriousness, 
but that it was too complete, too perfect in its own way, 
either to borrow lustre from, or have its own light dimmed 
by, any other. A two-storied frame dwelling, with a fan- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


29 


ciful roofing, every window dazzlingly clean and daintily 
curtained, it had its bit of garden and box hedge in front 
and at one side, yet the windows of the little draw- 
ing room looked out so close upon the main road that 
when Mrs. Mackenzie sat in either of them she could see 
clearly every passer-by if she chose, yet, with her careful 
balance of things, she was herself sufficiently guarded 
from intrusive eyes. The ruddy gleam of her firelight 
streamed out down upon the path and wintry road, mak- 
ing many a passer-by long to penetrate beyond the pretty 
dark-green doorway and share the warmth and good 
cheer likely to be found within, and it is safe to say that 
Mrs. Mackenzie, if not a woman given to promiscuous 
visiting, thoroughly liked her hospitality to be cheering 
to every sense — better, perhaps, than could be found even 
up at the great house of the Dykers itself. 

Such, in brief, was the family friend to whom Jean and 
young Appleton were hurrying that memorable evening, 
having ostensibly no further motive for the visit than to 
exchange the affectionate greetings of the hour. Yet both 
the young people were aware that they expected and hoped 
for some especial sympathy and counsel from so shrewd, 
so wise, so kindly an adviser. 

“How nice it looks!” exclaimed Jean as they turned 
from the Hill House gates and crossed the road to Mrs. 
Mackenzie’s little hedge-girted gateway. 

Dick had opened his lips to speak when suddenly the 
house door swung back — there was a stream of lamplight 
on the frosty road, a tall, dark figure shot out, and in the 
dusk Jean was aware of a familiar face, although it was 
half buried in a high ulster collar. A voice said abruptly: 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” and the stranger held the 
gate back for the visitors, but with evident impatience. 


30 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“I — oh — why, is it you, Sandy?” exclaimed Jean sud- 
denly, and putting out one of her little gloved hands. 

The stranger laughed. 

“Oh — why, its Miss Gamier, I believe,” he said in a 
way meant to be very offhand. “I’m not so often called 
‘Sandy’ nowadays.” 

Jean blushed in the dim light and laughed nervously. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon — Mr. Mackenzie,” she said 
with a barely perceptible touch of scorn. “This is my 
cousin, Mr. Appleton,” she added, “and we were just 
going in to see your aunt.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” said young Mackenzie, 
turning back at once. “She was just wmndering a while 
ago how soon she could see any of you.” 

lie opened the little drawing-room door, still w ith rather 
awkward politeness, and in the firelight the visitors saw 
Mrs. Mackenzie slowly, apparently thoughtfully, pacing 
back and forth. Her start showed how very deep w r as her 
preoccupation, but it w ? as gone on the instant as she 
folded Jean tenderly in her arms, then put out her hand 
to young Appleton. 

“So y T ou came to the old woman at once,” she said with 
evident pleasure. “Alex, ring for lights or make one 
yourself. Dear, dear, so you are home again.” 

“Oh, never mind the lights,” exclaimed Jean, a trifle 
anxiously. “Mrs. Mackenzie, I just v 7 ant a little cosey talk 
with you yourself. Oh, I can see enough from the fire, 
Dick,” she continued imperiously. “Do you and San — 
Mr. Mackenzie, I mean — talk about your old times, and 
let Mrs. Mackenzie and me have our gossip.” 

“For ten minutes, then,” said the young lawyer; “but 
remember, Jennie, how late it is, my dear girl, and that 
man up there.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


31 


“Oh, I know” exclaimed Jean. 

She had seated herself on a small low sofa by Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, directly in the firelight, and had taken possession 
of one of the widow’s soft white hands, on which gleamed 
two beautifully set antique rings. 

“Oh, Mrs. Mackenzie,” she went on in a low, hurried 
tone, “I’ve such heaps to say and to ask you! Wo only 
came home to-day, and indeed I don’t know whether to 
be glad or sorry.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s face took on a quick look of alarm. 

“My dear , why, I am sure you cannot but be glad! I 
was beginning to give my old friend up in despair.” 

“But, you see,” said Jean with nervous eagerness, 
“nothing is — well, how shall 1 express it? Nothing, any- 
way, is what one should expect it to be. I don’t know 
what to make of things at all. Aunt Ellen lias been very 
nearly deposed.” 

“Your Aunt Ellen! Jean, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Mackenzie rather sharply, “what are you talking 
about?” 

“It is this way,” said Jean, lowering her voice; “don’t 
fancy for a moment I have rushed down here to make mis- 
chief or trouble; but, really , someone must take a stand 
at once. Is it not a matter quite of course that it should 
be Aunt Ellen’s place to be the head of the house — that is, 
the mistress — isn’t it? But what do you think? It is 
Polly , little Polly Dyker, if you please, who has stepped 
in between her and everything. Oh, don’t laugh! She 
has as good as told us we are all just visitors , and indeed — 
indeed, dear Mrs. Mackenzie, I would never say one w r ord 
of this, but I’m afraid it will end in misery all around, 
and you, perhaps ” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s brows had drawn together sharply at 


32 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


first — now slie put up one of her white hands, smoothing 
the wrinkles out slowly. 

“Is it — does she think she is the — natural mistress of the 
house, then?” said Mrs. Mackenzie. 

“It must he so.” Jean gave a dismal little laugh and 
bent her eyes upon the leaping, gleaming fire. “And I 
suppose she means to try the housekeeping. What I hoped 
was that you could make a few suggestions to my uncle. 
Aunt Ellen is too dismayed, 1 fear, to know quite w T hat to 
do, and Polly is such a little — whirlwind!’ she added, 
smiling. 

“Do I hear your cousin’s name, Miss Gamier?” said 
young Mackenzie, moving forward. “I met her a year 
ago, travelling. So she has come home to take up the reins 
of government! She used to have no end of plans, I 
remember, for her new duties.” 

Jean smiled coldly. So even this young man — the 
lawyer’s clerk from Albany, she called him — knew of it! 

“By the way,” he w 7 enton, “didn’t I see a Mr. Bounce 
going into the Hill House to-day?” 

“I presume you may have,” said Jean distantly, and 
remembering that he also was a reason for her coming 
down here. “He was there when I left.” 

Young Mackenzie laughed. “Is it possible that — 
shyster — has any of Colonel DyheFs business?” he said, 
■with an evident sneer. 

Jean was roused now in a different direction. 

“I don’t think he has — or ought to have,” she was 
beginning eagerly, when Richard interposed in his most 
authoritative tone: 

“Do you know him, Mr. Mackenzie? This Bounce, I 
mean. Where — or who — what is he?” 

“Oh, he’s a regular practising lawyer, if 3 'ou come to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


33 


that,” said Mackenzie, with a shrug of his shoulders. “It 
depends upon what branch of his profession he is exercis- 
ing in your uncle’s interests.” 

“I fancy he is thinking of his own,” said Jean hastily, 
quite heedless, or perhaps really unaware, of Dick’s warn- 
ing eye as she continued rapidly. “He began by cross- 
examining us on the genealogy of the Dykers, and then 
spoke of poor Aunt Sarah and her marriage.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie made an abrupt movement, bending for- . 
ward to stir the fire. 

“Your uncle — surely he did not discuss Sarah?” 

The two young men were exchanging remarks in an 
undertone, and Jean said hurriedly and -with her hand 
pressed down upon her old friend’s arm: 

“Mrs. Mackenzie, is there any special reason why any 
of us should find out more about Aunt Sarah’s mar- 
riage?” 

“Oh, my dear,” exclaimed the older woman quickly, 
“how can I tell — what is there for me to say on such a 
subject?” She hesitated and then went on : “Your grand- 
father, I know, was anxious to have all traces of poor 
Sarah found, and no doubt your uncle attended to his 
wishes. She married, you know, a very common fellow. 

I once heard a rumor of her leaving a child.” 

“Who — where did you say this man came from?” said 
young Mackenzie in a low, sharp voice to Richard. He 
began to scent a legal complication in the affairs of their 
great neighbors which might prove of service to himself 
if he could “start the hare.” 

“He said he had lately been in Nautuck; in fact, I 
believe he came from there,” said Dick absently. “I 
can’t imagine for what reason, unless it was to make 
enquiries among my uncle’s friends or acquaintances. 

3 


34 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Come, Jean,” he added, with the tone of impatience a man 
can assume to those nearest him when vexed by any 
matter. “We had better be going back; it is growing 
late.” 

“Good-night, dear Mrs. Mackenzie,” said Jean, who 
felt ready to weep. What a home-coming it was, to be 
sure, thought the girl. Oh, if people who were dead and 
gone had only known in life how cruelly their folly would 
be visited upon the innocent would they ever have so 
complicated affairs in yielding to a passing weakness ? 
But Jean, as everyone who knew her was w 7 ell aware, had 
rather a high-strung temperament. 

On the whole, the young people departed consoled, as 
was alwaj'S the case with those who sought the widow’s 
tender sympathy, even though she had been unable to 
offer direct advice, a thing, by the way, she was very 
chary of giving in the family matters of others, however 
dear they might be to her, one of Mrs. Mackenzie’s original 
maxims being: Smypatbize and suggest, but never meddle. 

A spark, however, had been left alight in young Mac- 
kenzie’s mind which burned into a flame likely to reach 
more than his own 'well-being. Even his unqualified 
admiration for Jean Gamier was merged into this new 
turn of the wheel, which showed a state of things at the 
Hill House by no means unworthy his cleverest attention. 
And it was difficult indeed to keep his aunt from obser- 
ving how excited the slight discovery made him while he 
exercised his legal tact and diplomacy trying to draw her 
out. 

Mrs. Mackenzie had begun that soft click of her knit- 
ting needles which could be interpreted as an encourage- 
ment to conversation, or the reverse, as the case might be. 
On this occasion Sandy should have been a little keener in 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


35 


observation. But he continued leaning back against the 
chimney-piece and smiling with well-affected carelessness 
upon his hostess. 

“What an unfortunate thing having no real head to 
that house, Aunt Margaret! No one, I mean, who is 
clearly understood to be its mistress. And what a mixed 
up family it seems to be. Who, for instance, is this 
Sarah they have begun to talk about?” 

Mrs. Mackenzie looked at the young fellow’s handsome, 
clever face, with its hint of cunning — or was it only selfish- 
ness? — and wondered if Jean Gamier really could be 
brought to take an interest in him. But the young man 
was waiting for an answer to this important question. 

“Who is, or was, Sarah?” he repeated, with a little 
laugh. 

Mrs. Mackenzie was well aware he would persist in his 
cross-questioning until he had received some definite 
answer. 

“She was the Colonel’s sister,” said Mrs. Mackenzie 
shortly. “She ran away when nothing but a mere school- 
girl with a handsome scamp. He taught music, I believe, 
in a school. It is a long time ago. They are both dead.” 

“Without children?” said young Mackenzie. 

“So far as anyone ever knew. Indeed, if there had been 
any you may be very sure the Colonel would have known 
of it. Her father was furious, naturally. From all that 
could be learned, the fellow was a mere adventurer.” 
She paused and reflected for an instant. “I have heard 
that the Colonel’s father begged them to try to find traces 
of her when he was on his death-bed, so that it is more 
than likely our Colonel spared no effort.” 

More than this Mrs. Mackenzie either could not or 
would not tell her nephew, as she good-naturedly called 


36 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


the Rev. Job’s young relative. But it was quite enough 
to set him thinking, so that, indeed, the hours of the 
night were very restlessly passed, and he was glad of a 
fine, bright morning in which to take a turn in the village, 
and refresh himself for breakfast and a call at the Hill 
House. It would not be his fault, he decided, if, sooner 
or later, he did not attract Jean Garnier’s attention, but 
could anything at present be more exasperating than her 
way of overlooking him? 

The roadway in front of Mrs. Mackenzie’s little cottage 
was absolutely deserted, and lay white and still in the 
cold, clear morning, with something very attractive in its 
solitude to the pedestrian. Mackenzie was turning to the 
left toward the little village to which one street, a cluster 
of houses, and a small railway station gave the name of 
Thornton, when suddenly every faculty within him seemed 
checked. The great gateway of the Hill House was 
pushed open, and a girl’s figure appeared on the outside. 
She stood still a moment, looking up and down, holding a 
letter in her hand. And then, by a turn of her head, she, 
too, beheld the stranger, and clutching the letter in her 
hand more tightly, uttered a little scream — an exclamation 
half of fright, half of wonder. Was there not, however, 
a note of triumph in it as well? And then, making the 
best of it, young Mackenzie sauntered forward. 

“Well, upon my word,” he said with an easy famili- 
arity of tone and manner, but, at the same time, not offer- 
ing his hand; “where in the name of all that is wonderful 
did you come from?” 


VI. 


Sarah — for the apparition which had so startled young 
Mackenzie was our active heroine — stood still an instant, 
flushing and paling, with those conflicting emotions by 
which heroines in real life, as well as in romance, can be 
tormented. She remembered an “old score” against the 
young man before her, who had seen fit to amuse himself 
very pleasantly one summer’s afternoon at the county 
fair with a party of young people from Nautuck, “flirt- 
ing outrageous with her,” as Aggie had asserted, and 
then — as might have been expected — “just passing her 
by.” All of this rushed through the girl’s mind, but 
almost in the same breath Sarah realized he might be a 
useful tool or ally now, for she was perfectly well aware 
he was, or meant to be, a lawyer. Should she turn on him 
now — scorn, wither, crush him with a flash of her dark 
eyes, and what a certain person she knew called her 
“ cruelest stare” — or should she let him sufficiently into 
her secret to show him she was not to be slighted — on 
the contrary, quite worth making up to in his very best 
manner? 

As a result of these rapid communings Sarah tossed her 
head, drew back a step or two, and said carelessly: 

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, who’d ever have thought to 
see you again?” 

“Zmight say the same thing,” said young Mackenzie, 
with a laugh. He also had been thinking very rapidly, 
and was wondering how his acquaintance with this girl — 

37 


38 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


if, as appeared, she was staying at the Hill House — might 
be turned to good account. However, it could do no 
harm to keep her on his side. 

“I could add,” he went on, smiling, “that I must say 
you are looking very well. But there it is, your kind of 
looks bear any lights.” 

Sarah blushed crimson all over her face and tried vainly 
to give her head a disdainful toss, while young Mackenzie 
followed up his advantage quickly. 

“Is that a letter you are going to put in the box?” he 
enquired. There was a box just below for the convenience 
of the Hill House. “Well, I suppose if you really are up 
here visiting you’ve someone in Nautuck to write to.” 

He smiled shrewdly and shook his head. Again Sarah 
blushed. 

“Oh, never you mind, Mr. Mackenzie,” she returned 
quickly. “You see I’ve found out your name and every- 
thing — and I suppose,” she continued as they turned up 
the road — Mackenzie judiciously leading their steps away 
from his aunt’s cottage — “you thought I was just a nobody 
you could have your fun with and forget all about, did 
you?” 

Unfortunately for the delight of tormenting her former 
admirer, Sarah was too full of her new sense of importance 
to keep her bait long hidden, and above and beyond all he 
was a lawyer, the very one to advise her now ! 

Sarah stood very still a moment after that, her breath 
coming and going quickly, her big eyes fastened on the 
young man’s rather insolently smiling face. Might not 
the securing of him be worth even the amusement of pay- 
ing him off, and moreover, when he guessed her import- 
ance, would she not have her triumph as well? Sarah’s 
eyes danced, her cheeks glowed, and she was really a 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


39 


handsome girl of her type as she stood there. She 
could not resist the temptation of pushing her advan- 
tage. 

“I suppose,” she exclaimed, with a light laugh, “you’d 
be very much taken aback if you was to hear I’m writing 
this very day to get a lawyer for my own affairs, seeing 
as I found out I’m not just a nobody after all. Ma} 7 be” — 
and she jerked her head back in the direction of the Hill 
House — “I’ve a better right to be there than some people 
might think.” 

Mackenzie’s face, with its insolent look of admiration, 
changed so suddenly that Sarah was startled by the effect 
of her own words. He made a step back, then forward — 
the peculiar kind of legal instinct which he did possess 
coming to his rescue. 

“Take care,” he said lightly; “you may be playing 
with edged tools, my dear girl, or” — watching how the 
shaft told — “only making a fool of yourself.” 

“Fool of myself!” exclaimed Sarah, flashing a look of 
mingled scorn and triumph upon him, “when I’ve my own 
grandfatberV picture in my pocket this blessed born 
minute.” 

It was out now — her precious, wonderful secret, and 
Mackenzie, astute lawyer’s clerk though he might be, was 
for an instant fairly dazed by all that this revelation 
seemed to imply. His head spun as he recalled the con- 
versation of the night before in Mrs. Mackenzie’s firelit 
parlor — Jean’s anxious enquiries, young Appleton’s evi- 
dently warning words and look, and the very name itself! 
Half unconsciously he spoke it aloud, meaning it only as 
an emphasis to his thought. 

“Sarah!” he exclaimed, and then the girl’s light laugh 
and toss of her head restored him again. 


40 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“That’s me,” she said pertly, “and, if you please, sir, 
what of Sarah?” 

“Just this,” said the young man hurriedly, now so 
clearly in earnest that even Sarah’s gayly independent 
mood was changed. “I can be your friend in a way you 
little dream of, or your enemy. If you’ll do just as I tell 
you it’ll be better for you. Come, let us make a bargain, 
and I’ll stick to it — and to you,” he added, the smile which 
had so captured her fancy once before glowing upon her 
now. “Tell me the whole story — at least ail that I don’t 
know already, and let me see if the picture is worth con- 
sidering.” 

Sarah was carried away now by her mingled desire to 
astonish and to please him, and as well by her real anxiety 
to have a genuine “lawyer’s” opinion. She was well aware 
she could do nothing quite by herself, and if, as he inti- 
mated, he knew enough to be her enemy, why not make 
the compact and keep him as a friend? 

“You’ll be fair?” she said reluctantly. 

Mackenzie nodded with an impatient gnawing of his 
mustache. 

“Just give me the chance,” he declared, and then slowly, 
and not taking her eyes from his face, Sarah drew forth 
her hidden treasure, the portrait in miniature known only 
to her as that of “her grandfather.” 

There was a moment’s absolute, breathless silence as 
Mackenzie studied the picture, realizing, even more surely 
than had Sarah, that it was, it must be, a portrait of one 
of the Dykers, for the family resemblance was positively 
startling. He needed not to study the initials on the 
reverse side of smooth gold to be convinced he held in his 
hand an important clue to the mystery of “Sarah’s” mar- 
riage, and what was still more wonderful, beheld in the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


41 


flesh, in the glowing, excited, and eager girl before him, 
a living — dare he say representative — of the would-be- 
forgotten and despised daughter of the Hill House. 

“ J. to E.” 

And below someone had traced with a pin or some sharp 
pointed instrument: 

“To Sahah from N.” 

“Your grandfather!” said Mackenzie slowly, unaware 
in his absorption that he was admitting his fears — or 
were they hopes? “But, Sarah” — he roused himself 
quickly and looked at the girl with a commanding air — 
“now that I have the matter in my own hands, let me 
know everything. To begin with — who are you?” 

Sarah gave a little scream, half dismayed at the severe 
tone her new legal adviser used, half bewildered, for 
she realized that beyond the fact of her connection w ? ith 
the Malones she could tell nothing of her pedigree or 
family history. 

“That’s every bit I know, Sandy,” she exclaimed; and 
Sandy, wincing even more than when Jean Gamier had 
called him by the familiar name, dared not check his new 
client in the outset of their conferences, “I’ve heard my 
aunt, Mrs. Malone, tell just how, when my father and 
mother were dead and gone, she took me — no, I think she 
said” — the girl blushed — “my father wasn’t good to my 
mother; he ran away with her — or from her — there w T as 
something, but I really don’t know a bit more than I am 
telling you,” cried Sarah desperately, fearful lest her 
golden chances might slip away through her ignorance 
concerning the main facts of her father’s life, yet dread- 
ing to send Mackenzie down to Mrs. Malone’s for informa- 


42 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


tion. “But whatever you do,” she exclaimed eagerly, 
“be on the watch with her, my aunt down in Nautuck, I 
mean; don’t give it away to her.” 

Mackenzie laughed. 

“Never fear,” he said quietly. What a piece of luck! 
He saw through the whole business now. It was of course 
with Sarah’s father that the Colonel’s gay young sister had 
eloped, attracted, no doubt, by the same bold good looks 
and spice of daring which were this girl’s chief attrac- 
tions. On his and her death the child had been adopted 
by the simple, hard-working Malones, to whom the picture 
meant only Sarah’s “gentleman grandfather.” How 
curious that they had never taken any trouble to investi- 
gate the matter! But fortunately, he reflected, it was not 
too late. 

“I must be goingnow r ,” said Sarah suddenly; “it won’t 
do for me to be fooling around here, and — oh, Sandy, see 
here a minute: don’t you go and be making any trouble! 
Only, what do you think it means?” 

“What do I think?” said the young man slowly, and 
facing the girl with an expression on his face which com- 
pletely silenced her. “That if you leave it to me, Sarah, 
and above all things if you do just as I tell you, w r hy, it 
won’t be long before you are a greater lady than any of 
them up there could dream of being; but if you say one 
word to anybody I’ll give the whole thing up, and you’ll 
find yourself left.” 

And then, having managed to keep possession of the 
locket for the time being, young Mackenzie was very well 
pleased to let Sarah make her escape back to the Hill 
House, promising her the earliest news that he could 
bring. 

Altogether the young man found himself justified in 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


43 


returning to the cottage with a light-hearted, affable, 
almost exhilarated manner, which he jocosely ascribed to 
his walk in the crisp morning air, advising Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie to try it for herself instead of the next doctor’s 
tonic. 

And as for Sarah, she regained the Hill House in a con- 
dition of mind impossible to describe. How everything 
seemed changed! Oh, what a triumph it would be to 
bring that Polly down more than a peg or two! Even to 
lord it over Miss Jean, whom that stuck-up young Apple- 
ton seemed so foolish over! And, best of all, wouldn’t it 
be a take-down for Will Rogers! Thought he was so 
fine, did he, because he had charge now of the peddler’s 
wagon running from Nautuck to Thornton, Ashfield, and 
two or three adjacent villages! Sarah felt she needed but 
one more drop to make her cup of happiness full to the 
brim — that Will Rogers should hear all about it, and 
should at last see her in her glory! It was Will, too, as 
she well remembered, who had dared to interfere with her 
talking to Sandy Mackenzie. Ob, what a take-down for 
him, for them all! Sarah nearly laughed aloud, and then 
quickened her steps, running around to the back door not 
a moment too soon, for Mrs. Knapp’s voice was to be 
heard shrilly ordering her daughter here and there as they 
made haste with the belated breakfast. 


VII. 


Mackenzie found it hard work to answer his aunt’s — 
to him — meaningless questions upon trivial subjects, so 
eager was he to engage in his new enterprise, and on leav- 
ing the cottage it was an additional annoyance that his 
steps, when he did escape, were hindered by a lumbering 
sort of vehicle, half express, half peddler’s w r agon, which, 
coming along, compelled him to draw back into the foot- 
path — the driver meanwhile, with a jerk and smothered 
exclamation, pulling up sharply. 

“Hullo,” said the owner of the nondescript vehicle, 
peering down at the tall, well-built, well-dressed figure in 
the roadway, “so you've turned up again, have you? 
Jiminetty Christmas, but I’ll have it out w r ith you this 
tinie and no mistake. Whoa up!” 

' And, fastening his reins, the peddler sprung lightly to 
the ground. 

He was a young fellow of twenty-five, perhaps, not 
above the medium height, but well, even powerfully, 
built, and his face, ruddy and brown from exposure, 
showed signs of good health and temperate living which 
more than made up for regularity of feature. The blue 
eyes had a snap to them; the mouth was firm, if good- 
humored; the chin square; and when he bared his head to 
rub his hand across it he displayed curly hair of a yellow- 
ish tint, that became his fresh color and bright blue eyes 
admirably well; and that he was muscular enough was 
showm in his every movement, to say nothing of his 
clinched right hand. “It’s you, is it?” he went on 

44 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


45 


angrily, and peering into Mackenzie’s face. “Now, then, 
are yon going to let her alone this time? 1 see now what 
all her airishness means. Oh, it’s you , is it?” 

And as the color flamed into the young man’s honest 
face Mackenzie recognized, with a thrill of disgust, his — 
rival — whom he had seen with Sarah at the county fair! 
All his pride of class — I use the term advisedly — rose up 
in revolt against an}' altercation, any dispute, as to the 
right to Sarah’s affections; but Will Rogers misunderstood 
his rival’s expression and supposed him only sneering in 
triumph. 

“Out with it,” he said doggedly; “you’ve turned the 
girl’s head, making her think herself a fine lady! I — I 
wouldn’t wipe my shoes on her,” the young fellow w r ent 
on, still raging over the other’s — apparent — calm; “but, 
by Jove, I’ll knock the dust out of any fellow who dares 
try to fool her! A gentleman, are you? Sticking notions 
into her head ! Look at here ! You can call yourself what 
you like, but if you come any of your little games around 
that girl I’ll call you what y r ou deserve to all the county 
if I swing for it.” 

Mackenzie watched him spring into his cart and drive 
on without attempting an answer. It was fully five 
minutes before he realized what had happened — what, 
indeed, Sarah must feel himself pledged to. If he could 
have drawn back then and there he would gladly have 
done so, but already the transaction had taken too serious 
an aspect. 


VIII. 


During tlie various small excitements of these days the 
Colonel, outwardly the most calm, had been in reality the 
most disturbed. Not only in his quiet way did he see and 
understand that the elements of the family were far less 
harmonious than he had expected, but the return to his old 
home had roused him to consider certain realities of life 
which in his vagrant wanderings he had felt no inclination 
to think seriously about. The hunting up of some special 
“bit” to add to his collection had, during his travels, 
absorbed him at times, so that he was taken completely 
out of any groove of discontent. His responsibilities he 
had certainly felt, but they were all toned down by the 
ease of his surroundings. The return to actual home had 
been an effort to the Colonel, more because he had feared 
to be roused, or perhaps driven , out of his accustomed 
ways; yet it was due to his sense of honor toward all the 
young people of his family that he had finally decided 
upon a return. He loved the old place of the Dykers. 
He had fancied himself there surrounded by family pres- 
ences which would be cheering, in that his young people 
would, see and learn to love the place which their parents 
had known as home. 

But — as our realized dreams so often do — he ■was as disap- 
pointed as a child over its broken doll, which had seemed 
a living creature. Polly, whom he had cared for in the 
fashion of petted plaything — a luxurious bit of childish 
loveliness — had completely baffled him. The workings of 

46 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


47 


the girl’s mind be had, of course, never understood before, 
and now it was as though a sudden flashlight had been 
flung upon the girl, revealing everything within her 
character in an exaggerated light. He had always 
counted upon Jean, who, if a trifle cold or “statuesque” — 
to use Dick Appleton’s expression — was one of those for- 
tunately made women whose inner qualities shine so 
through their actions that we never think of the unex- 
pected. But now even her attitude toward some mem- 
bers of the family had assumed an entirely different aspect. 
The fact was that he did not in the least comprehend that 
a girl with so much high-strung and fine activity about 
her should have a sensitiveness that was almost painful; 
that rendered her silent, uncomfortable, and a bit disdain- 
ful when she found that her Aunt Ellen’s place was so 
nearly usurped, and that she herself was subjected to con- 
stant petty annoyances from Polly, w'ho continued her 
reign of triumph. 

The house which he had really longed to see seemed to 
have lost its fine quality of home. He would open the 
door of the great drawing room with a furtive air, not 
knowing whether he most dreaded to encounter the ghosts 
of the past or the living presences. Polly’s quick step, 
her ringing voice, would reach him from some remoter part 
of the house and make him dread what he might hear or 
have to say. Jean’s half-offered, half- withdrawn air of 
sympathy annoyed him, because he did not like to consider 
himself pitied by anyone, and yet he well knew it would 
have afforded him infinite relief to hear all the girl had to 
say, to find out if she had any little pet projects which 
their home-coming had roused into feeling. Dick had 
betaken himself for a day or two to Boston, and Miss 
Dyker was constantly shutting herself in her room with 


48 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


the excuse of a cold. A final source of annoyance to the 
old man was the way in which Sarah would proffer the 
little attentions which should only have come from one of 
his family, and even the arrival of his own man — Jones — 
from Albany, with the special boxes he had been detained 
to look after, failed to do more than give the Colonel some- 
one to talk querulously to. 

He was certainly in a very dismal frame of mind when, 
a few da} r s after Jean’s somewhat excited visit to Mrs. 
Mackenzie, he made up his mind that a long talk on confi- 
dential family matters with his old friend would be the 
best relief to the fretfulness growing upon him. The 
first sight of her cheerful abode made him draw a long 
breath of something like real satisfaction, for he was well 
aware that whatever might be the outcome, her counsels 
would be from a clear-headed brain and a very tender 
heart. He did not even ring the bell, but tapped with his 
cane on the window of her drawing room, within which he 
could see her seated, and it pleased him to notice that she 
rose at once, with a cheery smile, and instead of waiting 
for the door to be opened, she raised the window, letting 
him step in with the familiarity of a daily visitor. 

“Do you know, my dear friend,” she said brightly, 
holding out both her hands, and then pushing forward the 
easiest chair in the room, “if you had not come down to 
me I certainly would have sent for you or gone up to the 
House myself, for there is so much I had been wanting to 
talk over with you about our young people.” 

“Ah, Margaret,” he answered quickly, “that is one of 
the many things I have needed good counsel upon. They 
are so young, yet I never realized it before.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie laughed in her good-humored way. 

“And we are getting old, my friend, are we not? So, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


49 


although that makes it difficult, no doubt, for us to under- 
stand their little tumults and caprices, yet all the more 
should it make us very wide awake to the fact that it is 
we who must govern and direct them.” 

“It has made me irritable, I am afraid,” he answered. 
“They seem to have so little of the feeling I expected.” 

She looked at him gently. 

“Do you mean too little reverence and enthusiasm for 
the old place?. or is it, perhaps, that until they are a little 
older, or perhaps I should say more settled in life, they 
might do better for a time apart?” 

“Either I have not the key to their characters or to the 
riddle of life itself. It may be,” he went on to say, with 
a rare look of sweetness which softened the somewhat 
stern outline of his features, “that I have been too 
long a dreamer. Margaret, I wandered aimlessly over 
the old house to-day, and listened for what I could not 
find.” 

“What is that?” 

“The voice of the present ; a cheerful present instead of 
the echoes of the past.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie made no answer for a moment. She 
had picked up a piece of fancy-work from a small table 
near by and let her knitting needles click gently before 
she spoke. 

“I wonder,” she said, raising her kind eyes to her old 
friend’s face, “what it is we elderly people really ought 
to expect. When you and I were young everything in 
life seemed like a kaleidoscope, to be turned around at our 
pleasure, falling into perpetually new effects. And now 
we know, do we not, that the broken bits of glass are a 
mere toy, and that the turn of the wheel in the real events 
of life is in higher hands.” 

4 


50 A FAMILY DILEMMA. 

She broke off, smiling half sadly, and resumed with a 
lighter air. 

“Now you and I can enjoy sitting quietly, can’t we, by 
this simple fireside, for we have, to a certain extent, done 
w r ith the impetuosity and extravagance of youth. We 
have lived all that out and come to definite conclusions as 
to what our little tempers and vagaries and even expecta- 
tions are worth. But, you see, they are beginning it all, 
and they jar upon each other, not knowing what is to 
come.” 

He was listening with almost reverent attention, 
having risen to rest his arm upon the mantel, and so 
gaze down into her fine, expressive face. His “ghosts” 
seemed to flit away as he remembered that during almost 
all of their two lives her counsels, her keen and tender 
sympathy, had been the anchorage to which his helpless 
hands would return. And yet her life had been so limited 
a one, he had thought, in its actual surroundings! He 
had even smiled at her simple horticultural tastes, her 
content with this very little drawing room, for instance. 
And all the time had she not been grasping and holding 
truths which he had considered too difficult or troublesome 
to be worth his while? 

“Don’t imagine,” said Mrs. Mackenzie with a sudden 
change of tone and a smiling gleam in her eyes, “that I 
want to preach to yon, for indeed I could not to anyone, 
only, you see, I can’t bear to let you complicate matters in 
your daily life so that all the restfulness and pleasure shall 
be taken out of it.” 

“Then, Margaret,” he exclaimed almost fretfully, “tell 
me wliat I am to do. You know that I could never bear 
to see anything discordant, as you would call it, about me, 
and now, up at the house, not a wheel — well, a social 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


51 


wheel — seems to he running smoothly. I want to run over 
to Albany and perhaps to Washington for a few days, but 
if I do so will I find absolute chaos on my return?” 

“Oh, Neil,” she exclaimed, “I hope not; and there is no 
use of being so abstract or even metaphysical over what 
are only practical matters in everyday life. You really 
have, I think, if you wish my advice, a clear duty before 
you. To be plain, I think your little Polly needs the dis- 
cipline of school life. Lovely as she is, she will be com- 
pletely spoiled fancying herself the mistress of the house, 
and — perhaps end by breaking some good man’s heart. 
School life won’t hurt her. The everyday jostling in it 
will show her she is not the only animate object on earth, 
and give her a reverence for her superiors.” 

He stared for an instant in silence, and then laughed. 

“Why, she is only a baby!” he exclaimed. 

Mrs. Mackenzie made a gesture of disdain. “She is long 
past that,” she answered, “and why not make of her a 
lovable, useful woman while there is yet time?” She hesi- 
tated a moment and then continued gently: “Is she one 
day to rule supreme over the Hill House?” 

“Ah!” He drew a long breath. “How can I tell?” 

There were a few moments of silence between them, and 
again that dislike to even think of the disagreeable made 
him hesitate to take Mrs. Mackenzie completely into his 
confidence. But he did say at last: 

“You know, I think, something about the conditions of 
my father’s will.” 

“Oh, I know,” she answered quickly. “Has the search 
for any child poor Sarah may have left been useless?” 

“I think so. At least I never could come upon any 
definite trace of her, and as for her scoundrelly husband, 
it must have suited his purpose to disappear, for had he 


52 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


any idea of gain in presenting himself he would certainly 
wear our lives out. I advertised enough and tried every 
clue to her movements. By the way, there was a terribly 
underbred man up at the house, whom I could see was try- 
ing to ferret out a mystery and make something out of 
it.” 

“Yes, I know,” assented Mrs. Mackenzie. 

He went on with an evident effort at calm. 

“I made quick work of him, although his visit has dis- 
turbed me ever since. However, I must look into some 
bits of his voluntary information. I don’t want to let a 
thing of the kind worry me, but I don’t see my wa} 7 toward 
letting it alone.” 

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Mackenzie quickly. “If 
your father imposed any duty upon you in regard to 
Sarah it is clearly your only path to take it up. You 
know,” she went on, “that I never like making intrusive 
enquiries or offering advice; but in this case, as perhaps 
your oldest friend, I think I may say that you should 
leave no stone unturned if your father gave you any mis- 
sion to perform — no matter, Neil,” she continued with un- 
usual decision of tone, “how painful it may be for you to 
take it up. Of course I do not ask you to tell me anything; 
in fact, I would almost rather not know anyone’s actual 
private affairs. I am merely giving a general opinion as 
to what is one’s duty in regard to a mission — possibly 
bequeathed one.” 

“Ah!” he said, with another of those long-drawn 
breaths. “That is just it! And, as usual, I have taken a 
long time to say out what might have been expressed in 
three sentences.” 

She again waited in silence for him to continue. 

“I have decided to make a will a dozen times already,” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


53 


lie went on; “and now I shall make one, which will 
settle the question.” 

“But, Neil,” she said very anxiously, “don’t do any- 
thing rash, I beg of you. Remember there is nothing in 
the world more wretched than the complications over a 
disputed will. That is so like you! You will only apply 
a salve to your conscience instead of remedying an evil.” 

“Good Heavens, Margaret,” he exclaimed half angrily, 
“don’t misunderstand me — you of all people! I surely 
could not be unjust to those nearest and dearest to me. 
No, depend upon it, I will do nothing either rash or weak- 
minded in such an important matter. I don’t know,” he 
added half sadly, “why I have talked of all this as though it 
were so settled a grievance. It was that wretched fellow’s 
visit, I suppose, which disturbed me. All the same, you 
may count on my taking everything very gravely into 
consideration before I act.” 

“Do! Do /” exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie very earnestly. 
“You were talking,” she went on, “a few moments ago of 
all your responsibilities. Let this be among the greatest, 
I beg of you, and if it is of any comfort to you to come 
and talk over these matters with me at any time I hope 
you will do it. To go back to where we started from, 
why not try a good school for Polly? On this subject I do 
not hesitate to express my opinion very decidedly. You 
need not send her far away. Think this over, and in 
regard to the other matter, if there has been anything 
left undone, think out how to do it now.” 

“I will,” he said earnestly, and continued, speaking 
more rapidly: “I don’t know, Margaret, whether it has 
been the sense of disappointment or failure I have had in 
coming home, but it seems to me that life may be far 
nearer ending than beginning.” 


54 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Oh, no, no,” exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie; “nothing at 
all of the kind. It is more like a fresh start, and why not 
cheer yourself up by giving some sort of house-warming, 
so to speak? Go off to Albany on this little visit, and, if 
you like, let Ellen and me prepare a surprise party. If 
you authorize me,” she continued, “I will talk it all over 
with her and send out all the invitations in your name. It 
will cheer you up wonderfully, and you will clasp hands 
and see faces you have not met in years.” 

His face showed that he had caught the inspiration of 
her idea. 

“Will you really undertake this?” he exclaimed. 
“Then I am sure it will be a success, for I never knew of 
your making a failure.” 

“Certainly I will,” she said brightly; “it will do you 
worlds of good. If you like, I will go up to the House 
and talk it over again this very afternoon.” 

“Very well, do, I beg of you,” he exclaimed, and 
added in a moment: “Margaret, you are a w T onderful 
woman. I believe you could have guessed the riddle of 
the Sphinx.” 

But Mrs. Mackenzie only shook her head. 

“I can only unravel certain little w r ebs in the lives of 
those I love,” she answered. “As you know, I have never 
cared for a boundless horizon. A few things interest me 
so deeply that I want to probe their very depths, and per- 
haps in doing that I find bits of other matter on subjects 
beyond me, which cling, in spite of myself, to be felt 
unexpectedly just when they are needed.” 

“But a statesman would need no more,” he answered. 
“That means a sagacity which covers everything. I 
declare, Margaret,” he added, “it is delightfully like old 
times to talk these things over -with you. After all, is 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


55 


there anything more enjoyable in life than a completely 
sympathetic friendship?” 

“Humanly speaking — no, I suppose not,” she said with 
sudden gravity. 

“1 know what you mean,” the Colonel said in a low 
voice; “but then, when we reach a fine human altitude, 
does it not bring us that much nearer the Divine?” 

“Neil,” she said suddenly, “you know there is not a 
particle of cant about me, and yet I will take the privi- 
lege you have given me of offering you one bit of advice. 
Draw nearer to the highest authority of all and you will find 
our small, vexatious needs in daily life resolve themselves. 
Even though we may not do our very best for others as 
well as ourselves, nevertheless, if we place our uncertain- 
ties in the hands of Him who knows the reason for every 
doubt and all it entails, the answer will be given us. A 
bit of priceless china, if it suits your fancy, is well worth 
seeking for as an amusement, but the other search leads 
us to a rest and peace even if we make some mistakes.” 

“Margaret,” the Colonel said very gravely, “if you had 
taught or led me long ago I might have been a braver 
man to-day.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie flushed a little, but she quickly resumed 
the lighter tone in which she had been speaking a moment 
ago. 

“But this is not the long ago,” she answered, with a 
cheerful smile; “it seems to be for you a very perplexing 
to-day. Therefore let us only consider the question we 
had first under discussion. Try to do all you can to carry 
out any wishes your father may have expressed, if not 
written, in regard to Sarah, and meanwhile cheer yourself 
and us all by a general house-warming. When I go up this 
afternoon let ns marshal our forces and discuss our plans.” 


56 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


When the Colonel walked away a few moments later in 
the direction of his old home he kept saying to himself: 

“Why on earth did such a woman as Margaret ever 
marry that poor creature, good as he was, Job Mackenzie? 
What could she have found in his limited mental capacity?” 

But perhaps, wise as he was, the Colonel did not know 
that the fidelity to small matters, the perfect acceptation 
of fundamental truths and principles in Job Mackenzie, 
which had made his life so tranquil and to many others 
apparently so negative, had been just the influence which 
had developed the highest and finest traits in the charac- 
ter of a woman who would have been apt, under other 
guidance, to let enthusiasm almost override principle. 


IX. 


The idea of a real “party” at the Hill House sent an 
electric thrill throughout the entire county, and it appar- 
ently mattered very little to any of the invited guests 
that so short a time was given for their own preparations, 
and as Mrs. Mackenzie had predicted, the prospect drew 
the Hill House family together most agreeably. Miss 
Dyker “rose to the occasion” with such a complete sense 
of her importance as mistress of the house that Jean was 
enchanted, and Dick so gleeful that he nearly drove her 
back to her “dignity” again, while Polly was so absorbed 
in what she would wear, say, and do, how “receive the 
guests,” for instance, and whether any nice “girls and 
boys” were to be among them, that not a sign of a “tan- 
trum” appeared in the small “whirlwind” — and accord- 
ingly her uncle’s peace of mind was undisturbed. 

One member of the household, however, went about her 
duties with less composure than belonged to her present 
position therein. Needless to say, this was Sarah, whose 
spirit rebelled against every “order” given her, yet rose 
when she thought that very soon — sooner than “they” 
thought, perhaps — her “day” would come, and then she 
would see who could order around! Her “ye-e-s” in 
answ r er to Miss Dyker and Jean w ? as excessively aggravat- 
ing, but, as Miss Dyker observed, very soon they could do 
without her services. Cecile, the French maid, who had 
been allowed to remain over w 7 ith a friend in Albany, 
arrived, and proved a very glittering specimen of the 
genus femme de chambre , far more formidable to Sarah 

57 


58 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Ilian even the Colonel himself, her very broken English 
and her superior way of opening trunks, shaking out 
dresses, arranging and rearranging toilet affairs, inspir- 
ing Sarah with something so nearly like awe that she 
unconsciously said “Yes’in” when Cecile, with a look of 
disdain, told her to “remove hersailf — no touch mademoi- 
selle’s things.” Sarah, who had been loitering in Jean’s 
room eager to see all the finery, fairly flew at this com- 
mand, running down to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Knapp 
“that Frenchwoman was a regular terror /” 

Jones was perhaps the most reliable, sedate, and satis- 
factory member of the kitchen cabinet. He was a grave, 
dignified, self-contained person of mature years, no super- 
fluous sentiments, and apparently the tolerance of a wide 
mind and vast experience for the inabilities of other people. 
Accordingly he was ready to do anything required of 
him, taking it all for the “credit ” of the family, over- 
looking the shortcomings of others, since, as he reflected, 
and sometimes observed, Providence couldn’t make every- 
body'' 8 brains level, the inference being that were such the 
case the “Joneses” of this world would not have been 
needed; but he did express himself strongly on the subject 
of the supper having to be sent from Albany. 

“Ah, Miss Jean,” he observed gravely, “’tisn’t like 
the old Hill House times. When we were young — Colo- 
nel and me, miss — do you think we'd have let those ‘fly’ 
waiters and cooks around? No, miss!” 

“But, Jones,” said Jean, much amused, “you see it 
isn't old times at all. Indeed, I think it’s very new ones.” 

Jones shook his head gravely. 

“There’s all our collection, miss,” he went on; “aint 
touched yet, and I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t have one of 
those Henry Doos cups to be cracked for all you could 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


59 


give me! nor let a girl like that Sarah to so much as put 
her little finger on our genuine Farnese hit of tapestry; 
and when I think of the Breeches Bible, miss, I tell you I 
feel cold till I see it safe under lock and key.” 

From all of which it may be seen that Jones, in his 
capacity of body-servant and attendant on the Colonel, had 
received his own higher culture. 

Jean reported this conversation to Richard a little later, 
who declared that Jones was a “man of destiny.” 

“The like of him occurs perhaps once in a century,” said 
Dick. “lie is simply invaluable — in his own state of life. 
Think of having a man who can shave you like an artist, 
and at the same time understand the very sacredness of a 
Ilenri Deux cup and saucer! He deserves embalming 
after death.” 

Toward Sarah the conduct of this pattern creature was 
just what might have been expected. After the first 
stare of surprise at her familiar way of going about, he 
simply ignored her, unless she stood directly in his way, 
when he would, to use her own expression, “ brush her 
away like a fly!” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s presence, suggestions, and actual help 
were of the greatest service, so generally felt, yet at no 
time intrusive; she was, if anything could be, like the so 
much needed “oil” on those fractious wheels of the Hill 
House life. But it troubled her greatly to think that the 
Colonel’s visit to Albany had not been entirely successful. 
They had chance to exchange but a few words on the sub- 
ject until she was about leaving to make her own toilet 
for the party. Then she waylaid him in the lower hall, 
drawing him into the library of the house adjoining his 
own sanctum. 

“Neil,” she said, with an imploring look, “if you 


60 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


couldn’t find the older Mr. Tolies in his office why didn’t 
you see some other member of the firm?” 

The Colonel looked distressed. 

“My dear Margaret,” he said with the touch of impa- 
tience she understood so well, “I’ve been waiting for a 
chance to tell you.” (Poor Colonel! “putting it off,” 
would have expressed it so much better.) “I did see one 
of the — well, branches of the firm, so to speak — an old 
family friend, who lives very quietly on Beattie Street; a 
most interesting man! wonderfully -well read in San- 
scrit ” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s hands went up for an instant, and the 
Colonel rather hastily continued: 

“He and 1 talked the matter over confidentially, for he 
had known poor Sarah and her — scamp of a husband. 
Well, he thinks the last traces of her child, if there was 
one, was about this neighborhood, or rather lower down. 
He mentioned Nautuck.” 

“ But ,” exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie, “what made him 
think? He must have had some reason /” (“Heavens 
alive!” she ejaculated to herself.) 

“Yes, yes, Margaret. I’m coming to that,” said the 
Colonel quickly. “It appears that a fellow looking very 
like him — I mean Dalton — used to be seen about by some 
people who had a music store in Albany. On one occasion 
he bought some music, or rather ordered it “put to his 
account,” saying he had to have it then and there, as his 
wife had particularly wanted it that day. Now, then!” 
concluded the Colonel. 

Mrs. Mackenzie waited. Then: “How could they 
remember such a trifle all these years?” she asked. 

“For an excellent reason. He already owed a Large bill, 
and this amount was to be added to it.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


61 


“And was tlie music sent?” 

“Yes; the old boohs show that.” 

“ Where to? O Neil, do come to the point!” exclaimed 
poor Mrs. Mackenzie, standing up in despair. 

. “You need not be worried, Margaret,” said the Colonel, 
taking out his wallet as leisurely as though he only needed 
to extract therefrom a one-dollar bill. “I wrote it down 
carefully. In fact, as you can see, I was cleverer than you 
think, for I visited the music store itself, and I assure you 
spent a great deal of time to get at the old books of the 
firm.” 

And he handed her a slip of paper on which was written 
in his delicate Italian hand : 

“Five pieces of music charged to Philip Dalton, Esq., 
June 10, 187 — (presumably for his wife), Dalton residing 
at the time in or near Nautuck, Schoharie Co., N. Y.” 

As Mrs. Mackenzie lifted her eyes from the paper he 
said, with his delicate smile: 

“Well, Margaret, what does that look like?” 

“Like!” exclaimed his friend eagerly. “Why, Neil, 
like a gleam of hope!” 

The Colonel drew a long breath. 

“If not despair!” he said in a low tone. 

“But, Neil,” urged Mrs. Mackenzie, more thoroughly 
roused by this bit of information than she dared to show, 
“surely you will not now let the matter rest here! Oh, if 
only I were a man!” 

The Colonel smiled again. 

“Thank Heaven you are not, Margaret, my dear,” he 
observed; “for you would set all the rest of us poor 
weaklings at naught. As a woman you are simply incom- 
parable.” 


62 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


She passed his words by with another of those quick 
gestures of her hands. 

‘‘Then you will look into it without delay, dear Neil?” 
she asked anxiously. 

“I promise you,” he answered with real solemnity. 
“For, Margaret” — he had drawn nearer to her, and as 
the}^ faced each other laid his hands on her shoulders with 
a firm pressure — “you may think me only an idle dreamer, 
but I am something better than that where actual duty is 
concerned, and lately poor Sarah seems to pursue me. Is 
it, I ask myself, because I am so soon to see her?” 

“Neil, Neil! Do not, my dear, I beg of you!” 

“But would that mean unhappiness?” he continued, 
smiling down into her troubled face. “Not at all! I 
feel myself more and more of late drawn toward the old 
days! You remember them as w r ell as — perhaps better 
than I. But to go back to what we were saying — to prove 
my earnestness on this subject, let me tell you my will is 
already made. If, when 1 am gone even, the child of poor 
Sarah, if it exists, has not been found, I have provided 
that the search shall be continued ; moreover, I have taken 
good care that all our dear ones here are provided for. 
You know how little they have of their own.” 

He moved back toward the chimney-piece, leaned his 
arm upon it, and looked down at her very gravely. 

“Under the conditions of my father’s decidedly eccen- 
tric will, as you know,” he resumed, “Sarah and I 
inherited almost everything. In the event of the death of 
either of us the property w r as to go to the survivor, and 
upon the death of the survivor, leaving no will, to the 
child or children of either, in equal shares. This was his 
last will, when he regretted his casting the poor child off 
so coldly on her marriage. That was before poor Gar- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


63 


nier’s death, or before he knew much about Dick, and 
Tom and his father never agreed. Jean, though I never 
let her know it, has next to nothing. Polly” — he smiled 
tenderly — “Pd be amused to see the little thing living on 

her income, and even my Aunt Ellen No, no; it 

well becomes me now to set all this business right, and so 
I have made what I consider a very just and considerate 
will.” 

“ONeil!” exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie, almost weeping 
between relief of mind on the one point and dread of the time 
when such a document should be needed. “I am so glad 
you have done this, for it has always seemed to me nearly 
criminal that people should for a foolish shrinking from 
making a will leave matters in a troubled way for those 
they love. Think of all such negligence has brought to us 
already! My friend, I am glad of this.” 

His brows drew togethef slightly. 

“One would fancy, Margaret,” he said a trifle coldly, 
“you expected me to die!” 

She smiled, and shook her head. 

“Only in the Lord’s good time,” she said very gently, 
“ which 1 believe and hope to be a very long way off. I 
never saw you looking better, my dear friend. It must be 
coming home.” 

“Is it?” He spoke with a touch of wistfulness and 
glanced around the beautiful old room. “But. Margaret, 
my girl, I am not so young as when you and I sang in 
this very room. Those were happy days ! ” 

“But,” said Margaret Mackenzie quickly, “do you 
know, charming, fascinating, as youth may be, middle life 
has. a deeper attraction for me. Perhaps I had better say 
I find more real content in its occupations, and even aspi- 
rations.” 


64 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“All! There are aspirations yet, then?” 

“Why not? Better ones; everything takes on a finer, 
higher, more useful meaning. We can afford to look 
back, and looking forward means added peace.” 

He waited a moment, then said as though speaking to 
himself : 

“They will not be alone ” 

As he broke off their eyes — the eyes of long and tried 
and trusted friendship — met, and instinctively Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie held out her hand. 

“If anything should take me from my charges here — the 
unexpected is what always happens, is it not?” her friend 
said, laying his hand in hers — “Margaret, will you 
befriend them?” 

Nothing could have exceeded the solemnity, the gentle- 
ness of his tone, and tears, such an unaccustomed sign of 
feeling with her, sprang into Mrs. Mackenzie’s eyes and 
ran unheeded down her cheeks. 

“Neil!” she exclaimed. “Why do you talk and look 
like this? Tell me, dear, dear old friend, my brother — 
you have always seemed like one — what is on your mind! 
There is something — something more!” 

He drew back, a slight shiver passed through him, but 
he bent his head, and for the first time in his life touched 
her -with his lips, pressing them lightly once upon her 
brow, then her cheek. 

“Thank God! It is a promise!” she heard him saying 
as if to himself as he turned and abruptly left the room. 


X. 


If in its ordinary condition the Hill House was fine to 
look upon, it became a picture worth remembering when 
candle and firelight, flowers in abundance, the presence of 
a brilliant, happy, cheery company, all glad to meet there 
once again, woke it into new life, and even Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s very fastidious taste was satisfied by what met 
her eyes on returning from the cottage in the evening. It 
was not eight o’clock, and Sandy, who had been ready 
half an hour, had been hurrying her that they might be 
there “on time,” and as they hastened along the avenue 
she called upon the young man once or twice to admire the 
charming picture the old house made as they approached 
it. But Sandy disdained the merely picturesque, although 
he was by no means indifferent to the value of bricks and 
mortar. 

“Oh, yes,” he assented in answer to her demand that he 
should observe the beauty of the scene before them. “I 
know it’s all very well; but I wonder how it will look a 
little later — in other hands, for instance.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Mackenzie as sharply as she 
could speak. “What do you mean?” She remembered 
with a queer pang the talk of the morning. “I declare,” 
she went on, “there are some natures which can only cal- 
culate the money value of everything!” 

Mackenzie laughed. 

“And they are the wise ones ? Aunt Margaret,” he 
observed. 

5 65 


66 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


They were in good time and more than cordially wel- 
comed. Even the “statuesque” Jean unbent slightly as 
she shook hands with Sandy, or “Alex,” as he preferred to 
be called, and it seemed to the young fellow, who really 
fancied himself in love with her, that she had never looked 
more beautiful than as she stood under the great candlelit 
chandelier in the drawing-room with old Miss Dyker and 
Polly at her side. Her dress was some wonderful combi- 
nation in which pinks and reds w T ere blended with the 
tones of a pomegranate, and which set off her clear dark 
beauty — if such it could really be called — in the most 
effective way, and for ornament Jean, with her usual deli- 
cate taste, wore only the bunch of Jacque roses which 
Dick had at considerable trouble procured for her, and a 
slender little chain of gold about her throat. 

“It’s easy to see what your bent is, Jean,” he remarked. 
“I believe you are studying art, aren’t you? and, by 
George, you know liow to use your talent in dress.” 

Jean laughed and made him a little courtesy. 

“Thank you, sir,” she remarked. “Now go and say 
things that are equally pretty to all the other ladies and 
you’ll be the hero of the evening.” 

Sandy did go away — not, however, to compliment the 
rest of the company, but to seek, if possible, an opportunity 
for speaking with Sarah, lie was well aware that to be 
found conversing with one of the women domestics of the 
establishment would not look suitable in the least, and yet 
he felt it of vital importance to secure a few moments 
alone with her. Accordingly, when the rooms began to 
fill, the carriages sent to different trains, and those of the 
“neighbors,” as people within ten miles were called, 
began to roll up to the door, and deposit their cheerful 
burdens, he roamed about the lower hall, glancing in and 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


67 


out of doors with a would-be careless air until he espied at 
last the object of his search. 

Sarah, as he might have known, had been equally anx- 
ious to see him — her “lawyer,” as she called him to her- 
self — and so it was not at all surprising that she should 
have been “discovered” in the act of apparently dusting 
something on the mantelpiece in a small room off the 
library, a nondescript place which might once have been a 
lady’s boudoir , and was now a sort of general sitting 
room. Sarah turned upon him with audacious good 
humor. 

“Hello!” was her pleasant greeting. 

Sandy came in, glanced about, and then said coolly: 

“Doing as I told you?” 

Sarah nodded. 

“Keepin’ still? Well, yes, for the present. But 
maybe I might ask what you have been doing.” 

“Don’t you fret! It’s all coming out first-class,” said 
her “counsel,” nodding his head. “I’ve been to Albany 
and I’ve consulted in the case.” 

Sarah’s heart under the red cashmere waist of her 
“best” dress beat very high and fast, but she was really 
too much afraid to speak. 

“•Yes, sir,” pursued Sandy. “We’re on the right track, 
I think , if you don’t go to work and spoil things.” 

“Oh, bother /” said the amiable client. 

“That’s the word to use,” said Sandy, nodding his 
head. “All these things involve more bother, my good 
girl, than you can dream of, Horatio.” 

“ Horatio /” demanded Sarah, who began to wonder if 
her legal adviser was quite himself. 

“See your Shakspere,” returned Sandy, well aware that 
by confusing her he was impressing her with his own power 


08 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


and knowledge. “But to business. I have set tilings 
going, and now 1 want you to give me just a little bit of 
band writing. ” 

The color flamed into the girl’s face — so evidently not 
with anger, but distress, that Sandy felt really sorry for her. 

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” he remarked in a very off- 
hand tone and laughing good-naturedly. “You can write 
your own name, of course.” 

“Oh, yes!” said Sarah, infinitely relieved. “Why, 
what you talking about?” 

“Now we have to hurry up, for it won’t do to keep you 
from — me from the company,” said the young man, draw- 
ing a slip of paper from his note-book. “So I’ll just 
give — trust you with this, Sarah, my dear, if you’ll swear 
no one shall see it; if anyone does you’ll lose every- 
thing; and when you get the chance read it over carefully, 
and if you see fit sign your name there — at the bottom — 
hand it back to me, and all will go well.” 

Sarah shared the feeling common to many minds that in a 
“bit of writing” might lie danger, and as she showed this 
so plainly on receiving Sandy’s memorandum he added 
quickly, and with a touch of impatience: 

“If you’ve any brains at all you’ll see it won’t mean 
anything without I get everything for you. And if you 
don’t do as I tell you, then I’ll w’alk straight to the Colonel 
and tell him the whole story.” 

He placed the paper in her hands, watched her hide it 
away, and saying: “Mind, for your eyes alone,” sauntered 
leisurely away. 

Sarah stood still a moment bewildered, half alarmed, and 
above all things anxious to read the “writing” on this 
important paper. She could not wait, and so, regardless 
of all that she might be called upon to do, slipped away 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


69 


up the stairs to the little room assigned her, where she 
nervously struck a light, and holding it above the paper, 
read as follows: 

“I hereby promise to make Alexander Mackenzie of 
Thornton my sole agent in all business matters relating to 
the Pyker estate.” 

For an instant Sarah felt almost dizzy. Then she 
laughed aloud. 

“Why, an agent aint anything!” she reflected. “That 
doesn’t speak of money! The Dyker estate! What if it 
should all be true!” 

Sarah scarcely knew how she contrived to reach the 
little boudoir again, where she knew pens and ink were to 
be found. Luckily Mile. Cecile had not so far sent for her, 
and feeling entire confidence now in the success of every- 
thing, she contrived to scrawl her name to the memorandum, 
looking it well over to make sure that every letter was 
clearly formed, and as she did so a queer idea came across 
her mind. Where had she once seen her name written 
differently? Sarah — something — Malone, or was it just 
without the Malone? Yet she knew her aunt had called the 
article on which it w r as written hers. The question, how- 
ever, involved speculations too deep for the girl’s mind. 
Again she looked about her, and moving toward the hall- 
way, saw r her “lawyer,” who was still waiting, coming 
toward her. 

“All right?” he asked quickly, and half snatching at 
the paper. 

“Why, yes,” said the girl slowly. “But, Sandy, just 
you wait a bit! Do you know — seems to me that aint my 
own name, or I’ve got another. Aunt had it written 
down somewhere, but I remember how she scolded when 
she found it out.” 


10 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Your aunt, Mrs. Malone?” demanded Sandy. 

The girl nodded. 

“Why, yes,” she said. “It’s on a little book, seems to 
me, a sort of hymn-book.” 

Sandy stared. 

“ Listen to me,” he whispered quickly. “Would you 
know the name if you heard it?” 

“Guess so,” said Sarah. 

“Was it — Dalton enquired the young man as calmly 
as he could. 

“Why, yes!” exclaimed the girl. “That’s just what it 
was! And I said we didn’t belong to any Daltons that 
I’d ever heard of, and she was awfully mad.” 

Sandy felt almost alarmed by his success. 

“Sarah, my sweet child,” he said quietly, “don’t you 
fret. 1 guess you're all right.” 

And he sauntered away, thrilled, excited, and yet forc- 
ing himself to be calm. What a find! Well, Rounce 
couldn’t call him “only his clerk” after this. No, sir! 
And with these sentiments lending an expression of the 
utmost amiability to his face Sandy re-entered the draw- 
ing room, which was already pleasantly filled by a 
company of the Colonel’s old friends — people as different 
in type, in birth, in bearing from Mackenzie and Sarah, 
his “client,” as the sun from its shadow, yet who were all 
enjoying themselves heartily, laughing, talking, joking 
with unrestrained good humor, never fearing to go “too 
far,” indulging even in little witticisms at each other’s 
expense with no fear of giving a wound. What a different 
world it was from that of Sarah, Sandy could not help think- 
ing. And yet, if his half-formed project was carried out, 
when she should be mistress here he would be master. How 
would it seem to come into this fine old room, with its 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


71 


dignity of old possession, its air of perfect harmony, the 
various objects representing the tastes of its owners for 
generations, to see Aer, for instance, seated at the fireside 
of the Dykers, mistress of the house, his name the price he 
would have to pay for sharing such a possession? Coarse 
of grain the young fellow might be compared to many of 
those with whom he lived in daily contact, and yet, from 
the very force of his associations, came a fastidiousness, a 
flavor of fine feeling, at least about externals, which made 
him shiver as he thought of all that the new order of 
things might involve, nay, must bring about. 

“How 1 should hate her!” he said to himself as he 
leaned moodily back against the wall near the lower door- 
way, “and myself too.” 

And in the same instant he was aware that from a group 
near the piano Dick Appleton was approaching — Dick, 
careless in his perfect ease and self-possession, handsome, 
smiling, on perfectly good terms, it would seem, with all 
the world and himself. It was enough! One of those 
chance touches of a dark hand in a picture which destroys 
its finer influence. Not if he could help it should this 
fellow have all the say; and accordingly Sandy drew him- 
self up, smiled, held out his hand as Appleton did his, and 
Sarah was in the ascendant again. 


XI. 


Polly’s happiness was very complete to find herself 
that evening the centre of a group of girls and hoys of her 
own age, all of whom regarded her with open admiration 
and interest, for had she not only recently come home 
from various sojournings? But she was so bright and 
pretty and amusing, and then, as everyone seemed to 
know without being told, she was the heiress of this grand 
old house. It was certainly quite enough to ensure her 
success as a hostess, and feeling this put Polly at her best. 
She could afford to be very good-natured and even tolerant 
when the two Branscombe girls said how nice it must be 
not to “ have to go to school.” 

“Oh, but dear me,” cried Polly, U 1 think sometimes 
it ’ll be very pokey having to study by myself ! No one to 
care whether you get ahead of them or not,” said Polty, 
unconsciously revealing herself. “And no exhibitions or 
anything.” 

“We don’t have exhibitions at our school,” said Char- 
lotte Branscombe, a very thin, grave girl, unwontedly 
excited by all this chatter. “Our principal doesn’t 
approve of them. She says it encourages jealousy, not 
real study.” 

“We have ’em, you bet!” interposed her brother; 
“and I can tell you, don’t the boys just wish we didn’t!” 

“But, O Polly, dear,” said Marian Cayle, one of the 
girls from near by, “you’re just like someone in a book — in 
this dear old house, and everything you want, and such a 

72 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


73 


lovely — well, I don’t quite mean lovely, but darling — 
uncle !” 

The term somehow sent a little thrill through Polly’s 
careless young heart, and involuntarily she turned her 
head toward the end of the room, where Colonel Dyker 
stood talking in his pleasant, well-modulated voice to a 
group of interested people. How noble, how fine, how 
courtly a man he looked, and how good he was to her. 
Yes, he w r as, he had always been, a “darling uncle.” 

“Indeed, Marian, he is a perfect darling,” said Polly, 
with a sigh of content. “Why, he never dreams of refus- 
ing me anything /” 

And as a little murmur of approval passed through the 
group Colonel Dyker w’as seen to be moving toward 
them, and Polly called out in her impetuous way: 

“Uncle Neil! Come her e, please!” 

“Eh, Polly?” said the Colonel, ever ready to respond 
to the voice of his little favorite. “Well, what now?” 

“Oh, Uncle Neil!” she exclaimed, clasping one of his 
hands in both her own. “Do you know, they’re all envy- 
ing me; for what, do you suppose?” 

The Colonel, who was very fond of young people, 
glanced around indulgently, and the boys felt proud of his 
notice on the instant. 

“Not your white flummery, is it?” he said, still smil- 
ing. “Because I’m sure Ned Branscombe, for instance, 
has something better to think about. Your father has 
just been telling me, Ned,” continued the Colonel, “that 
you’re going ahead finely.” 

“ That so, sir?” said Ned, crimsoning with pleasure. 

Dr. Branscombe rarely praised his boys, and a word of 
the kind was music in the lad’s ears, and he loved the 
Colonel at once for repeating it. 


74 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Bui, Uncle Neil, Uncle Neil” Polly went on, still 
clinging to his hand, “it’s you they envy me! Do you 
hear? It’s having you for an uncle!” 

“O Polly, Polly, how could you?” was chorused in 
various tones as the Colonel, laughing in his quiet way, 
moved on. But the chance sentence set him thinking 
again with renewed satisfaction on the step he had taken. 
Could l,iis little Polly have said those words had she known 
how he had idled with his direct duty toward her? And 
again he rejoiced over having done his best on all sides. 

Whether Jones approved or not, certainly the manage- 
ment of the Hill House party resulted in something so suc- 
cessful as to be remembered long afterward by all present. 
Some of the Colonel’s treasures had been unpacked and 
were tenderly, proudly displayed. Polly had a heap of 
trifles to show, and — for she was exceedingly generous 
where merely giving was concerned — to bestow on her 
young friends. Miss Dyker forgot every symptom of 
headache in talking over old times with her former 
friends. And so it was, as Mrs. Mackenzie had pre- 
dicted, a thorough success, fusing all discordant ele- 
ments, and above all, as she had secretly hoped, setting 
dear Ellen Dyker at once in her proper place as her 
nephew’s housekeeper, chatelaine, sweet presiding house- 
hold angel. The young people contrived a song or two 
by themselves in the long hall, Sandy Mackenzie thereby 
showing one of his smaller accomplishments as a pianist; 
and from time to time the quietly happy master of the 
house would stand a little apart, looking on, better and 
better pleased to think of what he had done, and of the 
journej" he was to take on the morrow to make a new pur- 
chase complete. 

“Well, Margaret,” the Colonel said, smiling down upon 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


75 


Mrs. Mackenzie, when the last guests from a distance had 
departed, “your suggestion has been all that your ideas 
usually are.” 

“Yes; but, Neil” — she glanced up at him a trifle anx- 
iously — “there is just a word or two I had meant to say 
to you; but you look tired.” 

“Tired! No, indeed. I never felt more thoroughly 
rested. Dear, dear! Well, Margaret, must you really go?” 

And then the little family party clustered about her. 
Everyone, even the careless Polly, had something, some 
“last word,” to say to this dear, generous, sympathetic 
family friend. “Oh, Mrs. Mackenzie, be sure to come up 
in the morning!” from Jean, and “Mrs. Mackenzie, why 
don’t you stay here all night?” from Polly, while Dick 
made fun in his way, declaring her “cloud” was not on 
right, and persisted in rearranging it, while Jean held her 
fast by one hand. Mrs. Mackenzie felt herself stirred out 
of her usual calm by all this, and the Colonel’s words of 
the morning flashed across her mind. But then — how she 
loved them! She stood there, laughing and talking, the 
centre of a happy, merry group, such as the fine old hall 
would not know for many a long day again. 

“Margaret,” said the Colonel on the doorstep, watching 
her depart with the rather irritated Sandy, “don’t forget 
you promised to be here early in the morning. That paper 
— you know I want to show you something in particular. ” 

Mrs. Mackenzie looked back through the darkness at his 
figure under the great swinging lamp above, and nodded 
her head. 

“Yes, yes, dear,” she called out softly — the first time 
in years the tender appellation toward him had been on 
her lips. Then he moved back, the doorway was closed, 
and there were no more parting words to be spoken. 


XII. 


Mrs. Mackenzie’s sleep was a troubled one that niglit, 
as might have been expected, for the experiences of the 
past day or two had been of a really exciting nature, and 
her sense of responsibility in regard to affairs at the Hill 
House deepened as she recalled various portions of her 
talk with the Colonel. What, for example, had he quite 
meant her to understand by asking her to “befriend” 
them all? Surely no better guardianship than his could 
ever be needed. And so full were even her half-sleeping 
moments of thoughts of this kind that when a voice at 
her door roused her in the gray of the morning she started 
up, and almost before her maid, Hannah, spoke the words 
she called out: “The Hill House — what is it?” 

Hannah’s voice, quavering with excitement, was heard 
answering: 

“Oh, please, ma’am, get up quick, do,” and in an instant 
her mistress had flung open the door. 

The woman stood there trembling and tearful. 

“It’s Mr. Knapp, ma’am, if you please, and lie’s down- 
stairs, and the master’s had a fit, or something. Will you 
go up right away?” 

It seemed to Mrs. Mackenzie as though she could never 
find her garments or get them quickly enough upon her, and 
scarcely a word was spoken until she and the faithful Knapp 
were out in the early dawn. She had asked, “What 
is it?” and he had answered huskily, “We heard him 
groan, ma’am, and went in, and there he sat in his dress- 
ing-gown by the table.” 


76 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


11 


“And then?” 

“We thought we heard him speak your name.” 

The man waited a moment for the question she dared 
not ask, and then said in the same tone of voice: 

“He was breathing when I left, and the doctor is sent 
for.” 

It was useless, of course, to question further, and the 
lights, like fitful spectres of the evening’s festivity, could 
be seen glimmering in some of the windows, or moving 
about, and when the great door was once more thrown 
open it was to find a strangely altered condition of things 
from that which Mrs. Mackenzie had so lately left. Serv- 
ants were moving about on the lower floor, and Jean’s 
figure came gliding swiftly down the staircase, her face 
blanched with terror, and the hands she stretched out to 
her friend’s cold as ice. 

“Come up at once,” she whispered nervously. “He has 
been asking, or trying, poor dear, to ask, every instant for 
you.” 

The room in which he lay was that so recently prepared 
for his happy home-coming, and few signs of disorder 
were about. The Colonel, best and kindest of men, 
gentlest of friends, as she could not but think even in that 
moment, lay upon his bed evidently suffering intensely, 
yet with eyes which held more yearning than pain in them 
fixed upon the door. He knew at once, and tried by a 
feeble gesture of his hand to welcome her, and at the same 
time motioned the rest away. 

It was no time for idle ceremony, and reading in a 
glance that he wished to say something to her alone, Mrs. 
Mackenzie, with a- few gentle words, dismissed them for 
a moment from the room, and then, kneeling at his side, 
she whispered: 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


78 


“Neil, you know me, do you not?” 

His eyes answered her. 

“There is something you wish to say to me, is there 
not, dear?” 

Still holding her hand his eyes moved in the direction 
of his secretary, which she saw in the faint morning light 
w r as standing open, with papers scattered loosely upon it. 

No intuition is quicker than that of a woman where 
someone she has loved long and tenderly is concerned. 
Mrs. Mackenzie scarcely hesitated an instant before going 
to the open desk, where she glanced over the various papers, 
recognizing quickly in one long, folded document some- 
thing which looked newly written, and it flashed across 
her mind that it might be that most important of all 
papers — the will they had been discussing. Before she 
could speak she saw him feebly move his head, then wave 
his hand as though he intended she should close and lock 
the desk, and when she followed this mute signal a smile 
flickered across his face. 

He seemed to be making one great effort to speak, and 
at last she contrived to understand him, for although 
scarcely an articulate sound came, she answered : 

“Do you mean it is my trust? Were you trying to say 
‘your trust’?” 

He pressed her hand and again his head moved in assent. 

“Neil, I promise you,” she answered, trying by what 
seemed an almost superhuman effort to control her own 
emotion. “See, dear, I am kneeling down beside you, and 
I promise you that I will take upon myself any charge 
which I can, and so long as I live the children may always 
look to me as to a mother. Now, dear, is that what you 
wish to have me say?” 

He pressed her hand once more in token of assent, a look 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


79 


of ineffable peace and comfort crossing his features, and 
but that she knew his physical needs should be attended 
to, Margaret Mackenzie would fain have knelt thus quietly 
at his side for a little longer time. Only for one moment 
dared she linger, and that was to say, still in that tone of 
infinite tenderness in which all the strength, the gentle- 
ness, the comprehension of her long friendship for him 
seemed blended : 

“Neil, you remember what we talked of the other day. 
Try to think, as I am thinking for you, of the dear Lord 
who has us all so lovingly in his keeping. It is all, your 
staying or your going, in his hands, and you believe it, do 
you not?” 

Later, when she tried to recall every look and touch of 
those moments, Margaret remembered with a thrill of 
exquisitely deep joy and satisfaction the look — one of per- 
fect triumph — which lit and glorified his dying features. 
In speaking of it to one very near and dear to them 
afterward, she said it was as though the Angel of the 
Lord, standing close at hand, had been suddenly revealed 
to him, holding out that message of hope sent to cheer the 
departing soul, and which, since he saw and believed in it, 
might be his. 


XIII. 


There is no need to dwell upon all the sadder incidents 
of the day which followed. Few households but have 
known all that such a time entails, and what a merciful 
dispensation it is that in the first hours of such a trial there 
is too much bewilderment and perplexity for us to be con- 
scious of our personal loss; since death is ever new as life 
itself. It is always the same shock, met with the same 
surprise that it could have come to one lately keen and 
alert among us. 

It was well for the Hill House party that they had Mrs. 
Mackenzie virtually at their head, since among them all 
only Hick and Jean seemed of the slightest use; but for 
some reason, unaccountable to his aunt, Sandy Mackenzie 
suddenly appeared, almost officious in his efforts to be of 
service; a fact which would have irritated her into peremp- 
torily telling him to leave them alone; but that someone 
was needed to do just what he was ready to undertake, 
and accordingly he became indispensable and like a mem- 
ber of the family. 

Mrs. Mackenzie was at no time a very talkative woman, 
never had moods of careless garrulity like so many of her 
sex; so that it was only to Dick Appleton that she men- 
tioned the fact'of her having locked the Colonel’s desk. 

“The dear old man!” Dick answered, not ashamed of 
the tears springing into his eyes, “I think I understand 
it all, for he said a few words to me that night after he 
came back; and, Mrs. Mackenzie, we must be careful no 
one touches anything up there. Mr. Tolies telegraphed 

80 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


81 


lie would be over at once. Until he comes of course no 
one has a right to interfere with anything. Do you know, 
I hear he called at the doctor’s that day, spoke of these 
seizures, and had his heart examined.” 

“Then he feared this?” 

“Yes; but it is a symptom of the trouble to dread admit- 
ting it.” 

They chanced to be talking in the main hall at the 
moment, and one of the swing doors below suddenly, open- 
ing, revealed Sarah’s figure, her face keener than usual, 
something in the whole manner and expression of the girl 
intensified, as though she was watching anxiously a critical 
moment. She was not in tlio least abashed, but said care- 
lessly: 

“Do you know, Mrs. Mackenzie, when those lawyer 
people are coming?” 

For answer Mrs. Mackenzie simply stared an instant at 
the flushed, excited face and figure, then turned back, still 
in silence, to Dick Appleton. 

Sarah did not move, and Dick, with the gleam in his 
eyes which Jean w r ell knew as a danger signal, moved 
forward. 

“Sarah,” he said, controlling his voice with an effort, 
“do you know you have been behaving very strangely 
to-day? What is it? It can scarcely be your grief for 
the good master of the house, nor is it likely to be that 
you wish at such a time to hurt other people’s feelings. 
If you really have anything on your mind, wdiy not 
say so?” 

The girl’s eyes drooped for an instant, and an abashed, 
not ashamed, look came into her face; but Dick’s next 
words roused her. 

“Is it,” he continued, “that you don’t like the idea of 
6 


82 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


being here at such a time? Is it that you wish to go 
home?” 

A look — eager, vexed, just what Richard could not 
define — had changed her expression, and, but for her 
promise of silence to Sandy, Sarah must in that moment 
have hinted at her secret. But the young lawyer had 
inspired her with sufficient fear of him to check any such 
careless boast, and she forced herself to say quietly, yet 
with the same lack of deference which had marked her 
conduct all day : 

“I can’t say just yet; I’ve someone else to consult in the 
matter. Maybe,” she added with sudden inspiration, 
“the lawyer gentlemen ’ll be able to tell you more what’s 
best to be done.” 

The door swung back, and with feelings impossible to 
express even to each other, Dick and Mrs. Mackenzie stared 
in silence, and indeed dismay. For what possible con- 
nection could there be between this girl and the Dyker 
attorneys? 

“ Dick ,” whispered Mrs. Mackenzie, her hand heavy on 
his arm, “what can she mean?” 

“By George!” ejaculated Dick, grinding his teeth, 
“whatever the little upstart means she shall have to tell 
it when they do come! Oh, don’t woriy, dear Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie. What earthly connection can she have with our 
affairs? A girl we never heard of before — from Nau- 
tuck ” 

Why or how it was Mrs. Mackenzie never could have 
told, but suddenly an awful gleam of light seemed to fall 
upon her at sound of the name, and she caught Dick’s arm 
again, uttering a low cry of dismay. 

“ODick! Dick!” she said hurriedly, her whole frame 
shaken. “ If it should be — oh, can it be possible? N~au- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


83 


tuck! Yes; that is where the people said lie was living; 
and with his wife!” 

“What — who, Mrs. Mackenzie?” exclaimed poor Dick. 
“Come” — he drew her into the deserted library. “Tell 
me, I beg of you, what AW. this can mean.” 

As soon as the door was closed upon them Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, forcing herself into composure, said quickly: 

“You know, Dick, the story of poor Sarah Dyker’s mar- 
riage, and what perhaps you did not know was that the 
last traces of her seemed to have been at Nautuck. Cer- 
tain it is that Dalton and his wife were seen there years 
ago; and then” — she hesitated, pressing her hands firmly 
together, while she strove to remember every detail of her 
last conversation with the Colonel — “he told me that 
while he was in Albany that day he hunted up a faint 
trace of poor Sarah at a music store, and found that on 
June 10, 187-, certain pieces of music had been charged 
to Philip Dalton for his wife , and that they w T ere at the 
time residing in Nautuck.” 

The muscles of Dick’s face seemed to harden as he 
listened. 

“And was that all?” he inquired. 

Mrs. Mackenzie sighed. “Yes,” she said slowly. 
“You, Dick, who loved him so well, know what was the 
one failing in his noble character: that terrible tendency 
to procrastinate. He could not bear to face the disagree- 
able in anything, and always, as you know, thought 
to-morrow soon enough for to-day’s work.” 

Dick bowed his head in mute assent. It cut him like a 
pain to think of anything like wrong-doing in one who 
had always been his ideal of the chevalier sans peur et sans 
reprache , and yet he could not but admit that this lack of 
firmness, this overfastidiousness in regard to having the 


84 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


grooves of Lis daily life disturbed, constituted in tlie 
Colonel’s character a weak spot just as hurtful in its 
results as any openly joronounced trait could have been. 
He would have preferred to close his eyes to a fact if he 
dreaded something distasteful to his senses in what their 
clearer vision would reveal, and now might there not be a 
terrible irony in the result of his neglected duty? If, as 
there seemed some slight danger, this girl Sarah from Nau- 
tuck had any claim against the Dykers, what would the 
poor Colonel feel could he know of it? How much bet- 
ter would it have been for him long ago to have accepted 
the disagreeable fact of Sarah’s marriage, and rescued her 
child from the vulgar surroundings in which she, if indeed 
it were she — and Dick shivered at the thought — had been 
reared ! 

“There is but one thing to do,” said Dick suddenly, 
rousing himself from all abstraction, determined to avoid 
an unpleasant scene in the house. “Send the girl to me, 
Mrs. Mackenzie, and I think, if I am any judge of human 
nature, it will 'not be very long before I know something 
definite on the subject.” 

“I trust to you, Dick,” said Mrs. Mackenzie; “but 
remember, there must not be a hint of this wretched busi- 
ness to anyone until we are sure what is ahead of us. You 
see, I know all the family history; I have been in all their 
counsels, and you children here are dear to me as my own, 
and come what will you must all look upon me as a 
mother. ” 

The young man, to whom she had always seemed in the 
light of a near and dear relative, stooped down, kissing 
her reverently on her brow. 

“Like a mother, Mrs. Mackenzie!” he exclaimed. 
“Have we not all felt it at every turn in our lives?” 


XIV. 


Mrs. Mackenzie could not bring herself to deliver 
Dick’s message to Sarah in person, but after sending word 
to her by one of the servants that Mr. Appleton wished 
to see her at once in the library, went alone into a room 
near by to await the result of Dick’s cross-examination. 
Strange and varied were her thoughts as she sat there, piec- 
ing out bit by bit the puzzle of the past : Sarah Dyker’s mar- 
riage, death; her father’s will, leaving everything to the 
Colonel and his sister; and then the still more complicated 
puzzle of the present, since what she dreaded now was 
that this girl from Nautuck might be proven to be Sarah 
Dyker’s daughter, and next, that if the Colonel had not 
made a new will the children here, so unutterably dear to 
her, so unfitted to face the world, would be cast upon it! 
“No, no,” said Mrs. Mackenzie almost aloud; “what I 
have shall be theirs!” and then she stopped short, com- 
mon sense reminding her that the income which supported 
her in such comfort, affording her those little luxuries 
which from long habit had become like necessities, would 
amount to nothing divided among the Hill House family. 

But this was pushing miserable speculation too far. She 
had begun to hope she was only growing morbid, when 
Dick’s step sounded along the hall, the door opened, and 
he came in looking as she had never seen him except once, 
when as a boy at school he had returned from giving the 
bully of the class a sound thrashing. 

“It is a miserable business,” he said almost harshly; 
“and the worst of it is that the girl has already taken 

85 


86 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


someone into her confidence.” lie hesitated, and then 
went on : “ However, with a nature like hers, it was easy to 
get at all she had in view, even while she was trying to 
keep faith with her” — he laughed queerly — “her lawyer . 
It appears she has long suspected her claim to the estate, 
and from what I could get out of her the grounds are 
excellent. She is a mixture of ignorance and shrewdness — 
the hardest stuff to deal with — and what we have been 
thinking only a few airs and graces on her part has been 
in reality the result of her conviction that she is really 
entitled to the property !” 

“What!” Mrs. Mackenzie’s hands went up in dismay. 

“Oh, yes.” Hick spoke with the calmness almost of 
despair. “So far as I can make out,” he continued, “this 
is her cheerful family history: Her father’s name, she 
declares, was Philip Dalton; she knows nothing about her 
mother, except that she died when Sarah was a baby, and 
his relatives in Nautuck took charge of her. She speaks 
mysteriously of a locket — a painted picture — of her gentle- 
man father, she calls it, and then corrects herself and says 
it was her grandfather. I have a theory.” 

“Yes.” 

“It is this: We know that poor cousin Sarah died and 
left a child after her marriage to Dalton; that Dalton and 
his wife, for whom, you see, he bought the music, were in 
Nautuck, where, as you remember, some of his relations 
lived. Now, then, the chances are, improvident as he was, 
and perfectly unscrupulous, Dalton simply left this child 
as a baby to these common people, who probably didn’t 
know enough to advance any claim upon the Dykers. 
Chances are they did not even know who his wife really 
was. You see, he might easily have been afraid of show- 
ing himself to any of them, for you know it was well 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


87 


known that cousin Sarah’s father had vowed he would 
cowhide Dalton if he once showed his face. No one knows 
how many crimes such a fellow had to conceal. Depend 
upon it, if he had thought there was the least chance of 
gain to himself he would not have hesitated to make him- 
self known.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie listened intensely to every word, and 
Dick had spoken slowly, building up his theory as he went. 

“ Horrible !” she ejaculated at last. “ Dick, what are we 
to do?” 

“I have terrified the girl into silence for the present,” 
he answered, with a very dreary smile; “and of course we 
must consult Mr. Tolies at once. How white and worried 
you look, dear Mrs. Mackenzie,” he added suddenly, lay- 
ing his hand with a caressing touch upon her shoulder. 
“You must get some rest. What is Jean thinking of 
to leave everything to you? She ought to have more 
stamina.” 

“Nonsense,” retorted Mrs. Mackenzie, roused into 
defence of her favorite. “The poor child has had her 
hands full keeping Polly from wild hysterics. The best 
thing for her, Dick, will be a little quiet talk with you, 
and yon see I don’t trust that girl Sarah. She is sure to 
start in gossiping with the servants. Do let us keep 
everything outwardly tranquil while he is with us. I will 
keep an eye upon Sarah, and let me send Jean down to 
you.” 

She left him, and when the door had closed Dick flung 
himself into a deep casy-chair, clasping his hands behind 
his head. 

“By all that is wonderful,” he thought, with a mirth- 
less laugh; “what would that darling woman say if she 
knew that Sarah’s lawyer was her precious nephew, Sandy?” 


XV. 


In tlie course of her varied experiences with the Dyker 
family Mrs. Mackenzie had never had a harder task than 
the self-imposed one of the next two hours, for it was 
repugnant to every feeling within her to treat Sarah even 
as an equal, and to keep her occupied near her lest she 
betray her secret to the other members of the household. 
She had simply called the girl, and using a dignified tone 
of command, desired her to accompany her to the cottage. 
At the first sign of rebellion on the girl’s part Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie made haste to say : 

“At such times, you know, my dear, it is difficult to get 
all the mourning that is necessary ready at once, and I am 
going down to look over a few things which may be of 
service, so you had better come and help me.” 

As this offered a suggestion of suitable attire for her- 
self, and moreover, something in Mrs. Mackenzie’s manner 
having the effect of reducing the girl to a wholesome state 
of submission, Sarah made no further objection, and 
explaining her errand to the others, Mrs. Mackenzie set 
out, wondering as they went along down the fine old 
avenue how soon it would be before the familiar gateway 
would be closed upon them all, since there was no question 
of doubt that were this girl to take possession, none of the 
Dykers would ever think of sharing it with her. And 
indeed it was not likely, judging from her appearance, 
that she herself would think of such a thing. Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie glanced up at the girl’s profile as they walked along 
in silence, trying to see just where there lurked a faint 

88 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


89 


resemblance to the winsome Sarah Dyker of old. It was 
only in coloring, and there was an unmistakable — Mrs. 
Mackenzie called it to herself hateful — look of Philip Dal- 
ton about the handsome face. Yet it was by no means a 
bad or disagreeable face. On the contrary, if pert, it was 
exceedingly good-humored, and the girl had honest dark- 
brown eyes and a really pretty mouth, and a certain brave 
way about her which, toned down by the refinements of 
association, might be graceful, or at least interesting. 
She was still very young, her sophistication being less of 
years than of the habits of early training, which had no 
doubt left her early independent, free to choose and decide 
for herself. Of course it would take an immense amount 
of polish to give her any social grace, but there was a 
great advantage — so thought Mrs. Mackenzie, who had the 
happy faculty of making the best of everything — that the 
girl was only common in look and bearing; and more- 
over, the face, for all its lack of intellectual quality,. was 
a decidedly pleasing one. It was hard work, of course, 
to get at the inner workings of so untutored a mind as 
Sarah’s, but Mrs. Mackenzie, realizing the fact that the 
girl was no doubt to become the mistress of the Hill House, 
determined at once to see what could be done w T ith her. 
How strange it seemed, she could not help reflecting, that 
in the varied events of the Dyker family she had been 
called upon to play the part of special providence, guide, 
philosopher, and friend, and it was this knowledge of her 
personal responsibility which kept her spirits up and gave 
her the kind of impetus which she needed. She was 
always in her element when controlling in a kindly way 
the lives of those whom she loved, and now it seemed to 
her, as she entered her own little gate, as though the Colo- 
nel’s legacy to her must have included this half-tamed, 


90 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


untaught, hut decidedly independent daughter of the 
house, and it was characteristic of this best of women that 
the greater the difficulty to surmount the higher rose her 
courage — a fact which those who knew her were often sur- 
prised at, since she had chosen to let the outward chan- 
nels of her life flow in such calm directions. 

Meanwhile Sarah, as may be easily imagined, had not 
been silent from any lack of subjects to talk about, nor 
from any special deference toward the lady at her side, 
but simply because, being aware that Mrs. Mackenzie was 
Sandy’s aunt, she was wondering just what to say, how to 
escape too close a cross-examination, and yet, at the same 
time, to fling out some little hint that, since Sandy was her 
lawyer, she — Sarah — must be quite as good as Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie herself. It came over her with a little shock that 
when Sandy appeared, as he doubtless would very soon, he 
would announce himself as her agent, and Sarah naturally 
began to wonder just what that would imply. It had 
sounded to her very fine to hear that she had an agent; it 
suggested a variety of things to the girl’s mind; and if he 
was like other agents, she reflected, he ought to be able at 
once to buy her some very handsome clothes. 

“Come in, my dear,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, forcing her- 
self to a politeness of tone and manner as she ushered 
her guest into the dainty, home-like parlor. “Now take 
your things off, aud sit down over there; I want a long 
talk with you.” 

Sarah did as she was bidden, beginning to feel rather 
more uncomfortable when she found herself in that charm- 
ingly appointed room; but her main idea was to hold her 
head up, and not let any of them think they could put her 
down. 

“I hardly think,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, “that it is 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


91 


necessary, Sarah, to pretend I don’t know all that you 
have told Mr. Appleton. Now, it may be and it may not 
be that you have something to do with the Dyker estate. 
I think myself that you have some sort of a claim.” 

“Oh, 1 should say so,” exclaimed Sarah, suddenly crim- 
soning. “You just better wait until you hear what my 
lawyer has to say,” and then her cheeks flushed a deeper red. 

“It’s very well you have a lawyer, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Mackenzie with admirable composure, and having laid 
aside her wraps, she seated herself in her own special chair 
near the fire, half facing her young visitor; “for in these 
matters we cannot be too careful. You know a mistake 
just now would mortify you very much.” 

“There aint no mistake,” said Sarah, unabashed. “It’s 
all as plain as a pikestaff,” she continued, heedless of 
Sandy’s injunction. “My father was Philip Dalton, as 
heaps of people know, and he ran away with my mother, 
and she died and left me, and her name was Sarah. Now 
aint that clear?” concluded the girl with a triumphant 
expression in her eyes. 

“Possibly. Do you remember your mother, Sarah?” 

The girl’s face softened just a little. Thoughts of her 
motherless childhood in the Malone household, when she 
had so often wished to know something even of the mother 
never mentioned, came back and subdued her voice as she 
answered : 

“ I can’t tell you anything more, because, you see, mother 
died when I was a baby, and father” — her cheeks colored — 
“I guess he was not good for much, from what I’ve heard 
aunt say.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie started a little. 

“So you have an aunt?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” rejoined Sarah, brightening, and 


92 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


feeling really glad that she had some relatives of her own 
to put forward against those new ones who seemed so dis- 
inclined to receive her. “My aunt’s Mrs. Malone, down 
at Nautuck. You see,” continued Sarah, now that the ice 
was broken quite ready to explain herself, “the way I 
happened to come up to the Hill House was this: It was 
when the family were coming home, and Mrs. Knapp came 
down to get someone to help, and Mrs. Tom Bird sent her 
in to me. Aunt Jane was out for the day, and I was just 
minding the baby, so I was only too glad of the chance to 
come.” 

“Did you know nothing of the house before then?” 
enquired her hostess. 

“What do you mean? The house up here? Oh, yes, 
of course I often heard of it; but, you see,” added the girl, 
her shrewdness returning to her rescue, “I guess the way 
I never knew I belonged to the Dykers was because 
I always went by aunt’s name. My father he was her 
step-brother, but she never talks of him much. He was 
a music teacher.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie bowed her head, and Sarah continued : 

“They say he could play lovely on different kinds of 
things, and I’ve some music at home he wrote all himself, 
and a little book besides. He wrote that for my mother,” 
continued Sarah, little knowing the added misery she was 
inflicting upon her listener. “But, I guess, from what I 
hear aunt say, he was pretty wild. He was awful good- 
looking. I used to think,” she proceeded, “that the 
painted picture I had w r as him, but I found out when I 
came up to the Hill House that it was my grandfather’s. 
I see one just like it up in Jean’s room.” 

“Where -was your father married, Sarah?” asked her 
inquisitor. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


93 


Again Sarah blushed. 

“Why, I know he was married somewheres around 
here; but, you see, he ran away,” she added apologetically. 

After this Mrs. Mackenzie remained a few moments 
absorbed in thought. There was no question but that the 
girl was telling the truth. The very fact that she knew 
so little of her family history was proof of this. She had 
no desire evidently to embroider upon the simple ground- 
work, and it seemed now to the widow’s mind that the 
chief thing was to find this aunt of whom Sarah spoke. 
She certainly must be in possession of the absolute facts of 
the case. 

“ We had better send for that aunt, I think,” said Mrs. 
Mackenzie; whereupon Sarah gave a little start, almost a 
jump, forward, remembering that all this now lay in 
Sandy’s keeping. 

“Oh, my lawyer’s attending to all that,” she exclaimed 
hastily; “and he doesn’t want it to be mixed up at all. 
You see, he’s my agent; it’s all written down. Ought 
I to wear black at the funeral?” she added, breaking ofi; 
suddenly, and, indeed, to Mrs. Mackenzie’s relief, since it 
was evident that nothing further was to be done or said 
until the lawyers took up what appeared to be not a very 
difficult case in this girl’s favor. There were no compli- 
cations in the matter. Either she was or was not the 
daughter of Philip Dalton and Sarah Dyker; and if the 
former it was clear as noonday that at this moment, sit- 
ting there in the firelight of her own drawing room, Mrs. 
Mackenzie beheld the newly found heiress to a large share 
oi the Hill House property, to all the collections, the 
famity accumulations of years; but not — no, not, under any 
circumstances, unfortunately, of its traditions, of its 
heritage of high-mindedness, refinement, and nobility of 


94 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie naturally judged by externals; 
to her Sarah’s whole manner and appearance suggested 
everything that was vulgar, common, and no doubt sordid ; 
and even though, when the gate clicked next, it was to 
admit her nephew Sandy, Mrs. Mackenzie felt that any 
interruption was a relief. The tete-d-tete which she desired 
had certainly accomplished its purpose, and was now 
becoming wearisome. 


XVI. 


Sarah’s start on seeing Sandy, her little frightened 
exclamation, showed of course that they were not strangers, 
and poor Mrs. Mackenzie felt her heart sink within her. To 
find her husband’s nephew involved in all this was painful 
in the extreme, and yet, with her way of looking on the 
best side of everything, she determined not to show her 
anxiety. He, too, came to a rapid conclusion. Something 
very unexpected must have happened to bring Sarah to the 
cottage, evidently as a guest, and before Mrs. Mackenzie 
or the girl had spoken he said in his off-hand manner: 

“Well, Sarah, so you and my aunt have been making 
friends, I see?” 

Sarah glanced at him with a mute look, half apology, 
half appeal. 

“This young lady and I, Aunt Margaret,” he went on, 
“have had a certain very important business transaction 
to attend to, or, rather, she has wisely consulted me in a 
matter of great importance to herself ” 

Mrs. Mackenzie interrupted him. She rose and regarded 
him with that peculiar smile which the young man thor- 
oughly understood, and beneath which he had to quail. 

“ Ahl Now, Sandy, I understand it all thoroughly , and 
I can only say,” she added, “that I am very sorry we have 
tormented them all and subjected the poor child to any 
cross-examination. I might have suspected it was your 
doing.” 

He laughed. 

“Oh, so you know it all, then?” he said carelessly. “I 

93 


96 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


needn’t ask bow it came out; did a woman ever bold her 
tongue yet? Of course I meant her to tell it all in good 
time, but as I was acting for her ” 

Sarah nodded her bead eagerly. 

“Yes’m,” she said. “That’s the truth. I made him 
my agent.” 

“I was obliged as a lawyer to caution her to keep silent, 
although I must say,” said the agent somewhat loftily, 
“I am as well pleased the truth should be out and I saved 
the unpleasant preliminaries.” 

“They are by no means over,” said Mrs. Mackenzie 
coldly. “ Moreover, you must remember, even if this girl’s 
claim is proven, we know nothing of the terms of the Colo- 
nel’s will.” 

Sarah’s eyes sought Mackenzie’s face eagerly. He 
looked fixedly at his aunt. 

“The lawyer, his own man of business, will soon be 
here,” Mrs. Mackenzie said quietly; “and it appears to 
me he is the best one to attend to it all. It was but 
natural Sarah should show some interest in her own affairs, 
if indeed they are in any way concerned with those of the 
Dykers.” 

Sandy waited a moment — a breathless moment it 
. appeared to Sarah, and then he decided, since matters had 
gone so far, he might as well avail himself of the chance 
to show how cleverly he had taken his own part. 

“My dear Aunt Margaret,” he began in the coolest tone 
of voice, and standing where he could face both his lis- 
teners, “certainly this afternoon will settle it in one way. 
That is, I have conclusive evidence — you may as w r ellhear 
it now, in the young lady’s presence — that this young- 
lady” — he waved his hand toward his excited client — “is 
absolutely the daughter, the only child, of the late Sarah 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


97 


Dyker and Philip Dalton, married in Bonfield, where she 
attended school and took lessons from him; removed sub- 
sequently to New York, whence, after some months, they 
returned to the neighborhood of Nautuck. Sarah — here 
present — was born in Nautuck, in the house of her father’s 
sister, Mrs. Malone. The father, I regret to say, was not all 
that he should have been, and accordingly he left the child 
on her aunt’s hands. Her mother, unfortunately, died 
when the infant was ten days old, leaving with Mrs. Malone 
various papers, family trinkets, etc. I give you only the 
outline; the facts are all proven to my mind and satisfac- 
tion, and will soon be to any intelligent jury, should such be 
called; but I feel certain that no member of the Colonel’s 
family will require more than the prima facie evidence 
I have secured. I am glad to say that she was sensible 
enough, on suspecting the true state of the case, to place it 
right in my hands, for 1 have acted solely in her interest, 
and in such a way that unless the other members of the 
family choose to make a protest, all scandal — a thing the 
poor Colonel would have shrunk from intensely — will be 
avoided. However, in the event of their insisting upon 
anything of the kind, we are quite prepared to fight them. 
I am sorry to pain you, my dear aunt, but remember it is a 
case of equity, and 1 am determined to protect my client’s 
interests even— even — even,” concluded the young man, 
“in the face of my own.” 

To describe the effect of this long, but very carefully 
uttered speech upon both his listeners would be entirely 
impossible. But that it was different upon each can be 
easily imagined. Sarah, to whom her genealogy was of 
no earthly consequence, so long as she secured the estate, 
or mone/; as she called it, felt, in spite of much bewilder- 
ment over Sandy’s long phrases, her spirits rising at each 
7 


98 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


sentence and a dozen wild fancies darted through her ever- 
active little brain. Poor Mrs. Mackenzie seemed to be 
turning to stone. She thoroughly apjjreciated the fact 
that Sandy would never have dared say all this, dared 
openly admit what he had been doing, w r ere not his 
grounds excellent; and, as she well knew, he possessed pre- 
cisely the kind of legal ability needed for such ferret-like 
work, and among his legal friends he had apparently 
secured some good advice. No; she could not doubt that 
he felt his ground solid. The risk was too great. Defeat 
would have meant the contemj)t of all his friends in 
Thornton. 

“And if this is proven,” she said at last, letting her one 
barbed arrow fly, “how do you think Jean Gamier will 
feel?” 

“ That’s so!” ejaculated Sarah, but from quite a different 
standpoint. 

If Sandy could have taken the girl up bodily and hurled 
her from the room it w T ould have afforded him infinite 
relief. As it was, he could only turn upon her with a look 
of withering contempt, and say, as quietly as possible: 

“I’m very sorry for Jean, but then I believe she has a 
trifle of her own. As for the others,” he smiled, “hard 
work will make a man of Dick Appleton, and a little 
fight w T ith the real side of life take the starch out of 
Polly.” 

“IJa, ha!” laughed Sarah half hysterically, and Sandy, 
determining inwardly to pay her out when they were alone, 
continued : 

“And above all things, Aunt Margaret, remember that 
if the Colonel erred in postponing any search for his sister, 
he would be the first to commend us now in clearing up 
the mystery of his sister’s marriage. And how would 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


99 


Jean herself like to feel that she was living on anyone 
else’s money? ” 

“Like as if she stole it,” came from the irrepressible 
Sarah. 

Again Sandy glowered in her direction, and Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, seeing that at present, at least, there could be no 
advantage in pursuing the conversation, rose, simply 
inquiring what he intended to do. 

“That’s just what I want to know,” insisted Sarah. 

Now Sandy did turn upon her the full force of his eyes 
and wrath. 

“I’ll tell you, Miss Dalton,” he said severely. “You’ll 
do precisely as you are told by your legal adviser, or I’ll 
give the whole case up, wash my hands of it and you, and 
let you manage for yourself.” 

Sarah, being well aware that this would send L her hope- 
lessly adrift, since she supposed that Sandy alone held the 
key to all the riddle, was immediate^ subdued, and Mrs. 
Mackenzie did not hesitate to draw her nephew aside, 
where she said to him in a low, earnest voice, not without 
a tinge of supplication in it: 

“Sandy, don’t let yourself be deceived or deceive us. 
If you look me straight in the face, and tell me you are 
sure this girl is really Sarah Dyker’s child, 1 promise you 
I will do everything to make the best of it.” 

The young man did not flinch in his gaze, but he rapidly 
reviewed the situation, and decided that by all means it 
was best to keep Mrs. Mackenzie on his side. 

“I solemnly assure you that such is the deplorable state 
of affairs, and you will see,” he added hurriedly, “that it 
was far better for the family that I should take up her case 
than that she should have carried it off to some scheming 
fellow who w’ould simply have wanted to make the best 


100 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


for liimscif in the bargain. Of course,” he continued in 
the lowest possible tone, “it is scarcely needful for me to 
remark she is at present anything but a credit to the 
Dykers; still, that is not the poor girl’s fault, and in time 
something may be made of her. My idea is that when 
her inheritance is proven some sort of a reliable guardian 
can be found, and if we stand by her she will do as we 
say, and no doubt agree to share the property with the 
others. You see,” he continued very earnestly, “I’ve 
really done the best by all concerned, and you should 
thank me instead of complaining of my being very sharp; 
for what on earth have I to gain?” 

“True enough,” murmured Mrs. Mackenzie; and yet, 
although she could not help admitting the justice of all that 
the young man had said, there still lurked that suspicion 
of his integrity of which she could never rid herself. 
Some stronger motive than he had yet avowed was surely 
at the bottom of all this apparent disinterestedness. How- 
ever, his counsel for the present was certainly the best and 
the wisest. And indeed there was nothing else left for 
them to do. 

“I am by no means afraid,” continued Sandy as a final 
argument, “of laying the case before Mr. Tolies this after- 
noon; and another thing, Mrs. Malone, the "woman whom 
you hear her speak of as her father’s sister, is ready at any 
moment to come forward with her conclusive evidence. 
It is simply this: The child was brought to her as a baby 
by the father with all the necessary documents, family 
trinkets, etc. The case is as clear as noonday.” 

“And at the funeral,” whispered Mrs. Mackenzie, 
“what can we do with her?” 

“Oh, frighten her into staying at home,” said Sandy 
lightly. “I’ll manage that for you. In fact, it is not 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


101 


necessary for me to do more than consult with Mr. Tolies, 
and I can look after her while the proceedings are taking 
place. She’s rather an untamed specimen, I admit; but I 
think I can subdue her.” 

And indeed Mrs. Mackenzie asked herself was there any 
better way of tiding over the difficulty. Of course every- 
one must very soon know the whole story, and why could 
she not suggest keeping Sarah at her own house for the 
time being? She murmured it to Sandy, who declared it 
a capital idea, and they turned back to their very difficult 
charge on the instant. 

“ I have a certain condition to make with you, Miss Dal- 
ton,” said Sandy, who had determined among other inno- 
vations to accustom her to her rightful name. “My aunt 
here is kind enough to invite you to remain with her until 
after the sad ceremonies are over at the Ilill House. It 
will be far better for you not to appear. If you choose to 
accept the invitation everything will be made agreeable 
and pleasant for you; if not ” 

Sarah’s eyes had already begun to roam about the pretty 
room. 

“Here?” she inquired, evidently quite cheered. 

“At the cottage,” explained Mrs. Mackenzie very 
sharply. “You shall be my guest, do you understand, for 
a day or two until all this matter is settled; then you will 
not be bothered by people who are simply curious, per- 
haps, and anxious to make you say or do too much.” 

“Shall I wear black?” demanded Sarah. 

“You will wear whatever is suitable as a connection of 
the Colonel.” 

“His niece,” said the dauntless Sarah. 

Cowed from time to time she might be by Sandy and 
Mrs. Mackenzie, but she had two or three points in view 


102 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


she was determined to carry. She was “a lady” now, and 
she was determined to be treated like one. She wished to 
at once appear in the garments becoming a “member of 
the family.” Later on she would enjoy an interview with 
Polly, and perhaps with Jean, of whom she stood in just 
a little awe, that young lady’s very calm sort of superi- 
ority always having impressed her far more than Polly’s 
whirlwind of arrogance. 

“They’ll all know it, won’t they?” she demanded, deter- 
mined to make her own terms, which were a speedy 
acknowledgment of her rightful position among them. 

“Of course they will,” exclaimed Sandy with another 
wild impulse to choke her. “Don’t you see you’re only 
making a fool of yourself?” he added. “If I were in your 
place I'd try to show I was a lady by acting a little more 
like one.” 

The girl’s face really fell, and she looked mortified and 
troubled. 

“You needn’t fire up like that,” she said in a lower 
tone; “onty, can’t you see, Sandy, I want to know right 
away just what I am to do.” 

Something in the girl’s look and manner touched Mrs. 
Mackenzie’s ever-open heart. She laid her hand gently on 
Sarah’s arm. 

“My dear,” she said gently, “you need not be afraid that 
we will not all do the best for you directly the lawyers are 
satisfied as to your claim, and to prove it to you I will 
ask you up into my prettiest room now and see that you are 
made comfortable there, just as though it was your own.” 

Something like tears came into Sarah’s dark eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d be as good as all that when I first 
saw you,” she observed; “and I’m sure I’m ever so much 
obliged. Do you mean right away now?” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


103 


“Yes,” assented Mrs. Mackenzie; “but before we go, 
Sarah, I want you to make me one promise. It will not 
be well, dignified, for you to talk about your affairs with 
any of the servants just at present, either here or at the 
Hill House. I have only one maid here, a very trust- 
worthy, excellent woman, who has been with me for some 
years. Now it would surprise and shock her very much, 
and she would never think of you as a lady, if, when I 
leave you here, yon were to chatter about any of the 
family affairs. I must go back and see the poor children 
up at the House, and can I trust you to stny here and 
really show me by what you do while I am gone that you 
are a lady, or, at least,” added poor Mrs. Mackenzie, “try- 
ing to be one ?” 

“May 1 look about at the things?” enquired Sarah, 
who, singular to say, was beginning to lose all her former 
independence of spirit, or perhaps it was only being soft- 
ened by Mrs. Mackenzie’s gentle influence, and the fact 
that no one seemed inclined to “fight her.” Moreover, 
something within the girl told her that she should be 
grateful for the personal treatment she was receiving, 
since, no matter how good her claim, they might have 
treated her in a very different manner. 

Mrs. Mackenzie had to smile, but she said quickly: 

“Sarah, my dear, I will show you your room. It’s one 
I just keep for my special visitors, and you may look 
about at everything. Sandy,” she continued, “will you 
wait here for me a moment?” 

When the door had closed upon the ill-matched couple 
Sandy flung himself into the depths of a great easy-chair, 
and remained a few moments buried in thought. It was, 
no doubt, as he had often said to himself, a tremendous 
“find,” but how should he turn it to the besf account for 


104 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


himself, since of course that was the only point he had 
had in view ? He was well aware that Mrs. Malone would 
very soon obtrude herself upon the scene; in fact, he had 
had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to remain 
away until after the funeral, only obtaining her consent to 
this arrangement by threatening to give the whole busi- 
ness up if she persisted in her first idea, which was to 
make all haste to the Hill House and her “darling niece.” 
He w r as very w 7 ell aw r are that, once Sarah’s claims were 
established, the bit of paper by which she had made him 
her agent would be of no value in the eyes of the law 7 , and 
certainly result in no pecuniary advantage. At best he 
could only claim a good-sized legal fee. He had been 
thinking for some hours on the same subject, going around 
and around it, trying to escape the one way in which he 
saw substantial benefit for himself, and this rvas by offer- 
ing her his hand, and — nominally — his heart. It would 
only be now, he reflected, that he could be sure even of 
obtaining her consent, since it was merely while she 
needed his advice, if not control, that she would consider 
him a good enough match. A year hence, when she had 
received a little polish and training, she could do fifty 
times better in the matrimonial market. No, thought 
Sandy ruefully, this would be the price he would have to 
pay forthis great achievement. It might have been that 
Sarah, with her real good humor, her frank, high spirits, 
and her by no means unpresentable appearance, would 
have suited him w 7 ell enough for a life companion had he 
not been influenced and roused by the delicate refinement 
and finer spirit of Jean Gamier. Singular to say that to 
young men of Sandy Mackenzie’s calibre finer natures 
most frequently appeal, since they afford them, as it 
were, a relief from the distaste of tlieir own environ- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


105 


ment. Sandy was not a fool. He knew bis own 
shortcomings, and in trying to rise above them he put on 
a bravado not always meant, and the times when he dis- 
abused himself most were when he failed in attaining the 
point which fellows, as he said, like Dick Appleton held, 
as it were, by some instinctive right. It was a vexed 
question, yet to one of Sandy’s calibre presenting 
scarcely any variation of light and shade. It was simply 
a choice of evils: Sarah and the money, or his present less 
than moderate means and — as he was quite certain — no 
chance of gaining favor with Jean Gamier. 

He could hear the footsteps overhead, and realized what 
a glimpse of delight Mrs. Mackenzie was offering poor 
untutored Sarah, and it crossed his mind that if only he 
could persuade his aunt to really take the girl in hand 
something endurable might be made of her. Supposing 
that he were to boldly take Mrs. Mackenzie into his con- 
fidence? Apparently it was what everybody did, and she 
never seemed to go wrong. 

“By Jove!” thought Mackenzie, springing to his feet; 
“that’s the talk! That’s the very thing I’ll do before. the 
day is ended. It’s easily seen she thinks Jean a thousand 
miles beyond me, and I don’t suppose she’d object to my 
having some of the Dyker money. If she’ll stand by me 
in it I’ll make the girl do the square thing by all the 
family yet !” 

And thoroughly satisfied with the result of his cogita- 
tions, Sandy stood eagerly awaiting Mrs. Mackenzie’s 
return, and quite ready to enter into any plans for the 
immediate present she had to suggest. 


XVII. 


Mrs. Mackenzie had not come to any more definite 
conclusion, when she rejoined Sandy, than that he was cer- 
tainly acting fairly in this matter, and that since he was 
so far involved in Sarah’s affairs, it was plainly her duty 
to befriend him and make the best of it at the Hill House. 
But she was determined there should be no roundabout or 
circuitous paths toward any desired result. No, Sandy 
must face Mr. Tolies, consult with him in an entirely 
straightforward manner, and admit precisely his part in 
the transaction, or she would most assuredly let the matter 
drop so far as he was concerned, taking care to explain to 
her old and dear friends that she had been no traitor in 
the camp. 

Sandy greeted her eagerly; his own resolutions were 
formed, and he really believed himself capable of carrying 
them out for the good of all concerned. 

“I thought you were never coming,” he began, with a 
long-drawn breath of satisfaction. “Well, what next?” 

She smiled sadly. 

“But one thing, Sandy, and only one. You must at 
once tell Mr. Tolies, the Colonel’s lawyer, the whole story.” 

“And then?” 

“Why, take counsel with him.” 

“ The case is mine,” declared Sandy. “ Even if I am only 
a clerk, still, she has put the matter into my hands, and 
I shall be admitted to the bar next month. Aunt Mar- 
garet,” he exclaimed suddenly, and looking at her with the 
determination about eyes and lips she knew so well, “you 

106 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


107 


can be friend or foe; but you won’t move me, and I mean 
to marry her!” 

Mrs. Mackenzie started, but he gave her no chance to 
say anything else, continuing hastily: 

“Yes; and it will not be a bad thing for me or for her. 
Considering the girl first. She is a good-hearted, whole- 
souled sort of creature, but entirely unversed in the ways 
of the world, and, as you can well imagine, would be an 
easy prey to some fortune-hunter who would ill-treat her 
and squander the Dyker estate. Now, then, you may not 
have a very high idea of me, but, believe me, I would 
never treat my wife badly; besides, I should always 
remember she had made my fortune, and” — he smiled 
sadly — “I fancy it would cure me of an old folly, and per- 
haps I would be a better husband to a woman who would 
feel me her superior than to one who could say to herself 
she had condescended in marrying me.” 

It was the first time in all her knowledge of him that 
Mrs. Mackenzie had seen Sandy betray genuine earnest- 
ness and emotion from a really good and true source. His 
usual “veneer” of manner was gone, and it occurred to her 
suddenly that he was in part right. A girl of Sarah’s 
calibre would suit him well, develop what was best in him, 
since she would take him at a high valuation, and surely 
he could then afford to be generous to the other members 
of the family. 

“Sandy,” she said hurriedly, “I can’t tell what to think 
just now, but at least lam not against it; more than that, 
I will not oppose you, if only you will show yourself 
worthy of my trust, as well as this poor girl’s, by at once 
telling frankly to Mr. Tolies, who is sure to be here soon, 
just what you have been doing. You must in the end; 
why not do it before you are asked?” 


108 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“ It was my first intention,” exclaimed Sandy. “ Remem- 
ber,” lie added, “not a word of all tliis to Sarah. Ah, 
me! what a queer mess of things the Colonel’s father 
made just by one piece of stiff-necked arrogance, for I 
don’t doubt the music teacher wasn’t such a bad fellow 
after all. There is one serious drawback,” he laughed; 
“this aunt of Sarah’s, Mrs. Malone, is — well, what I have 
heard Jean Gamier describe as impossible. Rut she has 
all the documentary evidence.” 

“And it is complete?” 

“Beyond a question; even Sarah Dyker’s letters to her 
husband, and the old portrait, books, everything. Well, 
what next?” 

“I must leave Sarah cared for and go up to the Hill 
House, to my poor children there.” 

“Very well,” said Sandy, who felt decidedly encouraged. 
“Let me go with you.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie had no objection whatever to this 
arrangement, knowing she could leave her guest in good 
hands, since fortunately she possessed in her maid Hannah 
one of those rare blessings a perfect servant and a trusted 
friend. There could never be any question of loss of dig- 
nity in Mrs. Mackenzie’s confiding in her, since Hannah 
was too entirely well bred and of too delicate a mind to 
misunderstand it. She was as well aware that she pos- 
sessed Mrs. Mackenzie’s friendship as that she cherished 
it as something to be proud and worthy of ; and for the 
rest, the maid loved her mistress with a fidelity that repaid 
the latter for the two years of hard and patient labor she 
had devoted to her training, when, ten years before, she 
took her from misery and almost despair to give her a new 
lease of life and hope of eternity. Hannah had become so 
used to her mistress’ ways and ideas that she always under- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


109 


stood her, sympathized with her keenly, and had, by dint 
of close companionship, if such it may be called, culti- 
vated her mind until its workings were in very close line 
with Mrs Mackenzie’s own — certainly in most direct sym- 
pathy with it; and her mistress had now not the least hesi- 
tation in telling this faithful servitor just how things 
stood, and desiring her not to discuss them with Sarah, but 
to look after her wants, make her take a rest — which the 
poor girl really needed after so much excitement, and 
admit no visitors until her return. 

If only, thought the good woman as she and Sandy 
started on their difficult mission, the Colonel had known 
all that her “stewardship” was to involve! 


XVIII. 


Sabah’s first sensation on finding herself alone in the 
pretty room to which Mrs. Mackenzie had conducted her 
was one of relief; for the excitements of the past few days 
had really been very great; now that, in part at least, the 
tension was removed, she began to feel what it had been, 
and to be glad of even physical rest. Mrs. Mackenzie’s 
“guest chamber,” in which Sarah was installed, had, as 
might have been expected, its wardrobe, containing such 
garments as any passing sojourner beneath that hospitable 
roof would require. Among the articles was a soft swans- 
down wrapper of pale gray, Avhich Mrs. Mackenzie desired 
the girl to put on, with a pair of knitted slippers to match. 
Well did the astute lady of the house know that while 
such an attention might puzzle her guest, it would at once 
open her eyes as to the everyday usages of the class into 
which she had unexpectedly entered; and the girl was in 
no sense dull: she had a peculiarly keen mind; her very 
glance showed her observant faculty; and then she had 
lived long enough in an American village or small town to 
be free from any feeling of restraint in accepting attentions 
of the kind. The Hill House had subdued her by the 
stateliness of its rooms, their rather sombre furnishings, 
and the evident awe in which “Colonel” and “the family” 
were held. Mrs. Mackenzie’s cottage had nothing to dis- 
may her; it pleased her as though she had found herself 
suddenly transported into the midst of a pretty fairy-tale, 
and she decided when Mrs. Mackenzie had closed the door 


no 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Ill 


that so soon as she “had her rights” she would do some- 
thing very nice to show her appreciation. 

It would not have been Sarah, however, if, lying on the 
wide, comfortable lounge before the glowing wood fire 
which Hannah had lighted, she did not indulge in some 
speculative dreams and fancies. She tried to put Mrs. 
Malone away far out of her mind, tried only to think of 
what all this new life would mean for her, and then — sud- 
denly a burning blush spread all over her face down to her 
very throat, and Sarah sat upright, saying, “Oh, dear!” 
out loud. Will Rogers! She had hoped to overawe him ! 
JVow she could! Had ever any girl on earth such luck? 
And then — was it only physical fatigue, nervousness, or 
what? — but Sarah suddenly flung herself face downward 
on the cool linen-cased pillow and burst into an agony of 
hysterical weeping. Oh, what would Will think of her? 
Would his honest, gentle, but very clear blue eyes flash 
with scorn, soften with pity, or gleam with hate? Sarah 
did not of course put it into just these words, but the 
meaning of her thought was the same, and her passionate 
weeping all because she doubted if Will and she would 
ever meet again! And he would say it was all Sandy’s 
doing! And Aggie would encourage him! Oh, she had 
often and often heard that rich people were not happy, 
and now she felt sure of it! Poor little Sarah! If her 
triumph had been veiy great her misery was certainly as 
real and far harder to bear, and I do not know how long 
or bitterly she would have continued her weeping and 
sobbing had not the faithful Hannah heard the echoes of 
it and come hurrying up the stairs. “Poor girl !” thought 
Hannah. “She has sympathy for the poor, dear Colo- 
nel’s being took away, after all.” And Sarah suddenly 
lifted her tear-stained face to see the housekeeper standing 


112 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


beside her. “There now, my dear,” said Hannah. 
“Don’t you take on like that; it won’t bring him back, 
and he’s better off this minute.” 

“ Why, do you know him?” demanded Sarah, sitting 
upright from sheer amazement and gazing fixedly at the 
kind, thin face of the housekeeper, of which she was less 
afraid than Mrs. Mackenzie’s, or even Jean Dyker’s. 
Hannah had once been the prettiest girl of her class in her 
own township, and now if middle age had brought sallow- 
ncss instead of bloom, and wrinkles in plenty, with gray 
hairs thicker than the brown ones under her cap, yet she 
was pleasanter and sw T eeter to look upon than many a 
youthful beauty, having caught something, I think, of 
her mistress’ serenity of expression, as well as followed her 
example in a wise and gentle manner tow r ard all. 

“Know him? Of course, my dear,” said Hannah indul- 
gently; “although he’s been a\vay so long, his name is 
always respected, the poor, dear Colonel; and to think of 
him now lying all alone in the dark room.” 

Sarah dried her eyes hastily, and w r as thankful she had 
seen her mistake in time, but she hoped Hannah w T ould not 
go away. It was very pleasant to lie there on the soft 
lounge, with the wood fire crackling and gleaming, throw- 
ing up little dancing lights on the various objects in the 
room. 

“ If I bring you up a nice cup of tea could you drink 
it?” said Hannah reassuringly. 

“And will you come back?” demanded Sarah anxiously, 
“and stay a little while?” 

“Certain,” said Hannah, nodding pleasantly as she went 
out of the room. 

A drowsy sense of comfort and security stole over Sarah 
as she lay there, watching the shadows and the firelight 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


113 


chase each other in fantastic patterns across the walls and 
ceiling, forming a pretty interior, set against the wintry 
scene outside of the two chintz-draped windows. Some- 
thing more delicate and appreciative than she had been 
aware of possessing was stirred by the charm of her sur- 
roundings; it was like the feeling which the girl had ex- 
perienced that morning sitting on Mrs. Malone’s doorstep 
when this wonderful chapter in her history had begun. 
As I have said, Sarah had a strong element of romance in 
^ier composition, but until now it had never had any reality 
to feed upon, and the girl’s life had been happily free from 
the ruder kind of flirtation, not to be called love-making, 
which formed so large a part of the amusement of many 
girls in her own class. Fortunately for her Mrs. Malone 
had been almost fiercely strict in such matters, and could 
have set an example to many a mother in the upper ten, 
and there had no doubt always lurked a dread lest the 
wildness which had characterized her father’s youth should 
reappear in the girl herself. It had never done so, and 
rough, untutored though she might be, no dainty lady in 
the land could have boasted finer instincts of maidenly 
reserve than this uneducated girl, whose feet, so to speak, 
were standing on the threshold of the old Dyker inheri- 
tance. Some far-away ancestress, no doubt, had bequeathed 
this portion of instinctive feeling, better than all else, to a 
girl who had never known gentler training than the 
Malone household could give. And now Sarah’s fancies 
went on, foolishly, no doubt, but with nothing deeper in 
them. She pictured herself gorgeously dressed entertain- 
ing “heaps” of people, smiling and courtesying, dancing 
somewhere — on this point she was not clear — with Will 
Rogers, riding in an open carriage with a coachman and 
footman, and — oh, yes, no doubt, lording it over Jean and 
8 


114 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


that “stuck-up Polly.” They had not yet had their dues, 
but, she concluded, after a while she would be very gener- 
ous to them. It was odd, thought Sarah, to be thinking 
in this half-sleepy, half-comfortable fashion, and yet to 
feel her head aching all the time. Then she remembered 
how it had throbbed the night before, and how it tired her 
to go up and down stairs. She was very glad when the 
door opened and Hannah’s friendly face and figure 
appeared, carrying a tray upon which was a dainty little 
repast. 

“Isn’t that nice?” said Sarah rather languidly, watching 
while the housekeeper set it forth on a little gypsum tea- 
table near the fire. “Hannah,” she continued, “isn’t it 
funny I like to be here, and I’d like some of that to eat, 
but when I move about I get cold shivers all through me, 
and my head aches as if it would burst.” 

Hannah said nothing for an instant, but with a keen and 
practised eye regarded the languid young figure on the 
lounge. There was no mistaking the fact that she was in 
a high fever, her eyes intensely bright, her lips seeming 
to be parched, and without a word Hannah laid two of 
her gentle bony fingers on the girl’s pulse. It was bound- 
ing. For an instant or more Hannah made no remark, 
then she said quietly : 

“You ever been sick much before?” 

“Not since I was little,” said Sarah slowly; “then I 
guess ’twas only measles.” 

Hannah, with her finger still on the leaping wrist, said 
in a very soothing voice: 

“I tell you what you do. You just take a drink of this 
tea and lie down a minute. I have to go downstairs about 
something.” 

Sarah very quietly did as she was bid. Indeed, there 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


115 


was a curious inability creeping over her to make any 
exertion on her own account, and she offered no objection 
to Hannah’s leaving her alone again. 

But once outside the room door Hannah’s whole expres- 
sion changed to one of intense anxiety, and for an instant 
she stood very still, planning what to do. And it was 
fortunate in this emergency that her mistress left her so 
much authority, for she decided to act for herself without 
disturbing the conference she had no doubt w T as taking 
place even now at the Hill House. 

She went out to the little gate and watched for the first 
passer-by, who fortunately chanced to be a trustworthy 
young man from the village, well known to them all. 

“See here, Jake,” she called out. “I want you should 
do an errand for me right away and smart. You know 
Dr. Fraser’s house, just down the road there, don’t you?” 

The young man nodded. 

“Well, you hurry right down there for me and tell him, 
or the young doctor, if he aint in, Hannah Martin wants 
to see him quick at Mrs. Mackenzie’s gate just for a 
minute.” 

Messages of various kinds had been so numerous in the 
Hill House and the cottage for the last few days that Jake 
Rowe did not hesitate a moment, but Hannah stood still 
with an anxious heart until she saw him disappear within 
the doctor’s doorway. It was perhaps five minutes, but it 
seemed to her almost half an hour before the door reopened, 
and to her relief the doctor was to be seen hurrying out. 
A few s’teps brought him to Hannah’s side, when she 
hastily explained that a young girl come on a visit had 
been taken sick upstairs, and as Mrs. Mackenzie was away 
at the Hill House, she had taken upon herself to send at 
once for him. 


116 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“And very sensible, Hannah,” said the doctor, follow- 
ing her into the house with the rapid steps of the profes- 
sional caller in an emergency. “There’s been a great 
deal of low fever about lately.” 

Hannah was at no time a woman of many words, and 
she had the good sense now to leave the doctor to diagnose 
the case for himself, only desiring him not to alarm the 
patient, who had gone through considerable excitement 
lately. 

And so it happened that when Sarah next opened her 
languid eyelids it was to find Hannah and the doctor bend- 
ing over her. Very few questions were asked, but all of 
these Sarah could answer intelligibly, although she was 
fast drifting into that listless condition which made her 
more anxious to sleep than to talk to anyone, even though 
from time to time a certain restlessness betrayed her fever. 

Dr. Fraser said a few reassuring words to his new 
patient, patted her on the head, and then drew Hannah 
over to the window, w T hile Sarah half dozed off again. 

“It’s hard just at first to tell whether the case is a seri- 
ous one or not, but there is every sign and indication at 
present of typhoid fever, and you had better send w 7 ord to 
Mrs. Mackenzie — I’ll see to that — and get the little girl 
into bed at once. I’ll send some medicines and be back in 
an hour or so. It’s too bad you are alone,” he added, 
“but Mrs. Mackenzie, of course, must have someone else 
with her. It’s hard to tell in these cases just what will be 
needed, but I know of old, Hannah,” he concluded, smil- 
ing, “what an efficient nurse you are.” 

He hurried away, and Hannah was thankful that with 
Sarah’s weakness had come complete docility. She made 
no objection whatever to being assisted into the pretty 
bed standing at one side of the room, whose brasswork 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


117 


and dainty covering she had been admiring an hour ago; 
and then Hannah waited anxiously for her mistress’ return. 

In less than half an hour Mrs. Mackenzie and Mrs. 
Keyes had been hurried down from the Hill House, to 
find what was indeed an unexpected turn in the varied 
fortunes of those connected with the Dyker family; for 
while the lawj^er and Dick were discussing matters con- 
nected with those interests she had but a short time ago 
so valiantly defended with such a determination to see 
and hear all for herself, poor little Sarah lay upon a bed of 
sickness from which it w T as not possible to conjecture how 
soon, if ever, she would rise again. 


XIX. 


“I’m afraid it’s indisputable! Oil, wliat a shame I let 
him leave me without signing then and there.” 

“But how did it happen?” 

Dick Appleton asked the question, half in indignation, 
half in despair, and Mr. Tolies, the first speaker, coughed 
nervously. He was a small, compactly built, very care- 
fully dressed man; one of those people whose every sign 
and outward token suggest their calling and do credit to 
it. He and Dick Appleton were standing in the library 
of the Hill House discussing anxiously a question now of 
so much importance to the entire household. 

It was late on the day of the Colonel’s funeral, and the 
family, wearied with grief, anxiety, and the great tension 
of the past few days, had been glad to seek such repose as 
quiet could give them, since peace of mind they could 
scarcely expect after such an overwhelming blow'. The 
house looked cold, drearily deserted, and unlike itself; the 
library, full of suggestions of the dear presence so lately 
departed, would have impressed Dick more painfully but 
that at this moment his mind was too fully occupied with 
the important matter in hand. As Mr. Tolies frankly 
admitted, the Colonel had certainly instructed them to 
draw up the will w T hich he now held in his hand, but which, 
alas! proved to be unsigned. 

“How did it happen?” repeated Mr. Tolies testily. 
“ You know his way of perpetual postponement. He came 
to the office that day in my absence, nervous and worried 
and anxious, declared that owing to certain recent events he 

118 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


119 


must see that all his children, as lie called them, were prop- 
erly cared for, and accordingly Dent drew up the sort of 
will which the Colonel considered made everything fair and 
square. Here it is” — and Mr. Tolies gave the useless paper 
a quick tap. “At the very last moment he decided, as he 
was always accustomed to my transacting such matters 
with him, not to sign it until the next day, although he 
declared himself immensely relieved to have, as he called 
it, the matter at once satisfactorily settled.” 

Dick thrust his hands into his pockets, walked to the 
window, where he stood for an instant in silence, then 
wdieeled about, remarking: 

“And of course — poor, dear old man — this final pro- 
crastination has made all the trouble.” 

“Exactly,” said the lawyer, “and a nice mess it has 
made of things, especially if this Sarah Dalton, as I sup- 
pose we must call her, makes good her claim. I mean to 
have a talk with this aunt of hers, Mrs. Malone, but, 
really, as that young Mackenzie said this morning, it 
would only prolong trouble and revive a family scandal to 
take it into court. You see, everything is perfectly clear; 
Mrs. Malone has sworn to the marriage, which, of course, 
everyone acknowledged ; and, unless he made a will, Sarah 
Dyker, or her heirs, inherited after the Colonel. There 
you have it. Of course it’s my business,” continued Mr. 
Tolies, with a wintry smile, “to litigate everything, but 
as an old friend of the family, 1 say, where would be the 
gain?” 

“Exactly.” Dick leaned his arm on the mantel, and for 
a moment reviewed the miserable situation. He was think- 
ing less of Sarah’s inheritance than of the nearly penniless 
condition to which it would reduce the other members of 
the family. How would it fare with Jean, for instance, 


120 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


with Polly, to face the world on an income of perhaps 
eight hundred a year between them? — if indeed the little 
property in the girls’ own names would yield as much; 
and Miss Dyker, in her almost old age, accustomed to 
every comfort and luxury in life — what would become of 
her? How would she endure what the younger people 
might be able to make light of? As for himself, though 
there was naturally a twinge of disappointment in that he 
had always supposed himself to some extent considered by 
the Colonel, yet he had his youth and strength, and apart 
from that an equipment in sound college training. More- 
over, the gross injustice of the whole proceeding fairly 
overwhelmed Dick, making him feel almost angered by 
Mr. Tolies’ cool professional manner. And then, Sarah 
Dalton, as he knew now they must call her, who was lying 
ill over at the cottage — that she should step into this place, 
sacred to every tradition of the family! 

There came a light, quick step, -which Richard knew 7 , 
along the passage, and as the handle of the door was 
turned, Jean’s voice said in the piteous sort of accents she 
had used of late : 

“Dick, will you — can you come here for a moment? A 
lady — a person — is w T aiting in the sitting room to see some 
of us.” 

“ A lady!” exclaimed Dick, and as he stepped out into 
the hall Jean said, with a troubled look: 

“It’s an Irishwoman, who declares she has come to 
see her brother’s child get her rights. What can she 
mean?” 

Dick almost groaned aloud, for in an instant he realized 
who the unbidden guest must be, and indeed there was 
left but a moment to doubt, since Mrs. Malone’s voice w r as 
heard in shrill discussion at the lower end of the hall, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


121 


where she stood arguing with Jones that she would “find 
Sarah if she searched every timber of the place.” 

Something in the quietly dignified manner of Jean Gar- 
nier overawed Sarah’s excited relative, who calmed down 
directly Jean approached. 

“Did you wish to see Miss Dalton?” inquired Jean. 

“Indeed, I do,” was the answer; “and I want to see the 
young man she has for a lawyer. Where is he now?” con- 
tinued Mrs. Malone, searching the walls and ceiling with a 
furtive gaze. “I think you’ve got up a fine conspiracy 
among you to keep an innocent girl out of her rights.” 

“You are so far mistaken, madam,” said Dick, raging 
inwardly, but reducing the irate Mrs. Malone to calm by 
the very force of his manner, “that } 7 ou are the very per- 
son we are most anxious to see, and by coming you have 
saved us the trouble of sending for you. Jean” — he turned 
to her, speaking in a gentle tone — “go into the drawing 
room and let me take this lady to the library for a few 
moments. You look very tired; do be careful of your- 
self,” he whispered. 

Mrs. Malone followed, with an air half mystification, 
half wonderment, over all she saw about her, to the library, 
the door of which Dick held open with as much courtli- 
ness of manner as though lie were ushering in the greatest 
lady in the land. 

Mr. Tolies was still standing deep in thought by the 
fireplace, but he raised his head suddenly as Dick said: 

“Mr. Tolies, something very fortunate has occurred. 
This lady ” — motioning in the direction of the completely 
subdued Mrs. Malone — “is, as I understand, the aunt of 
Miss Sarah Dalton, and will probably give you all the 
information you require. Mr. Tolies,” continued Richard, 
“is the family lawyer, madam.” 


122 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Upon my word!” ejaculated Mrs. Malone, looking 
from one to another; “and what do you mean to say the 
other little fellow is doing? He came down on an errand 
from our Sarah to me a while ago.” 

Mr. Tolies, entirely ignorant of Sandy’s interest in the 
affair, and only eager to cross-question so valuable a wit- 
ness as Mrs. Malone might be, made haste to say that they 
need not waste time. If she would kindly answer a few 
questions at once it would save time, and, as he put it 
judiciously, help on all sides. 

Mrs. Malone gladly availed herself of the chair offered 
to her, and looked ready for any cross-examination. 

“The question w T e are now anxious to settle, madam,” 
said Mr. Tolies, “is whether your niece, Sarah, was the 
daughter of Mr. Philip Dalton and Miss Sarah Dyker.” 

The woman stared for an instant in silence, and then 
began : 

“Well, I wouldn’t have come all this way when I heard 
of the Colonel’s death if she wasn’t. It’s like this, you 
see, gentlemen: My brother Phil was handsome as paint 
and an elegant player, and he taught in the school where 
the young lady was learning, and ran away with her. I’ve 
their marriage lines this minute and lots of little trinkets 
belonging to the poor dear. I’m not denying he never 
treated her well, and truth to tell you, gentlemen, the rea- 
son I never made it all known was because the old Squire, 
the Colonel’s father, had threatened to ruin my brother 
entirely if he’d ever catch hair or hide of him; so when 
Phil died — and I’d no reason to be proud of him — I just 
kept the child like my own, and it was none of my doing 
that she ever came up here, and she can tell you I never 
made a boast of her belonging to one named Dyker no 
more than Dalton. I brought her up as a Malone.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


123 


There was a brief silence, during which Mrs. Malone 
tried to look indifferent and Mr. Tolies remained buried 
deep in thought. 

“Then, as I understand it,” he said presently and with 
studied deliberation, “your niece, madam, has already 
engaged the services of a lawyer?” 

“She has that!” declared the visitor, “and it’s him 
as I’ve come to see. Sure, he bid me wait, but whenever 
I came to look into it I said, now that I heard of the poor 
old gentleman’s death, I’d come up and see this lawyer for 
myself. And where is he? for he bid me do no talking 
without him. Mackenzie’s the name — Alexander.” 

Her listeners exchanged a look. Then Mr. Tolies 
coughed and observed dryly: 

“In this case, Mr. Appleton, we can only confer — with 
the young lady’s counsel. And, indeed, if it will hasten 
a settlement of the affair, the sooner we do so the better.” 

Reassured by the lawyer’s manner Mrs. Malone decided 
to hold her tongue, while Richard stepped quickly out 
into the hall. The side door of the house had just opened 
to admit Mrs. Mackenzie and the very person he was in 
search of, Sarah’s legal adviser, the confident, but still 
somewhat anxious, Sandy. He had no fear of establishing 
Sarah’s claim, but he was desirous of appearing to advan- 
tage on both sides, to “keep in” with all parties con- 
cerned, and he was yet in a little doubt as to how his news 
would be received; for it is one thing to say that you like 
to see justice done on all sides, and another to find it 
deprives you of the very roof above your head ; and well 
did Sandy know that the Colonel’s family would not ask 
the bounty of a girl like his “client,” and would certainly 
remember he had been the instrument used to turn them 
out into the world. 


XX. 


Mrs. Mackenzie’s brave heart failed her just for an 
instant as she caught sight of Dick’s pale, set face, but she 
made haste to say quickly : 

“Richard, I have insisted upon Sandy’s coming here at 
once to explain the very remarkable position he has taken 
upon himself ” 

“ I know,” interrupted Dick shortly, but he took her hand 
and pressed it warmly. “It is like you, dear Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, and it has saved me the trouble of hunting him up. 
Ilis client’s aunt, a Mrs. Malone, is in the library with 
Mr. Tolies this moment. It appears” — Dick could not 
resist this little fling — “after Mr. Mackenzie and she had 
laid their plans she felt afraid he was not quite to be 
trusted, and thought best to investigate for herself.” 

The speech lashed Sandy into precisely the frame of 
mind needed for his enterprise. He turned very white for 
an instant, but said quietly: 

“So much the better; for it is a matter which really 
ought to be settled out of court.” 

And while Mrs. Mackenzie felt ready to weep between 
shame of him and dread of what might be in store for her 
“children,” Dick, with another gentle glance in her direc- 
tion, led the way back to the library, Sarah’s “counsel” 
following with all the bravado at his command in look and 
bearing. 

For an instant Mrs. Mackenzie stood still, wondering 
what she had better do, or rather just where at that criti- 
cal moment she would be most needed, and then she slowly 

124 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


125 


went up tlie great staircase and to Jean’s little room. She 
was not there; the sound of voices — soft, subdued girlish 
voices — led her to a little schoolroom of the house, so long 
unused that in preparing for the Colonel’s return no 
change or thought of it had occurred; and there, in the 
deep embrasure of a window looking out on the old gar- 
den, were the girls, Jean and Polly, drawn together curi- 
ously not only by their common loss, but their fear of what 
might yet be in store for them of misery and change. 
They had been talking in low tones; Jean was in a deep 
old chair, behind which she had played hide and seek as a 
very tiny girl, and Polly on the floor beside her rested her 
pretty head in an attitude of utter weariness on her 
cousin’s knee. 

“Oh, Mrs. Mackenzie!” they exclaimed together, 
welcoming their friend. “Come in. Do tell us what is 
going on ! There’s something very queer, and do tell us 
what it is.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie tried to smile, but bravery was hard at 
sight of the girls newly orphaned, and perhaps to be left 
to the fate of many other young bread-winners, with so 
little equipment for the fight! 

“You see, dear children,” she said gently, “there is 
always a great deal of business at such a sad time, and 
perhaps you had better know at once your uncle did not 
sign his will. He made it, but he died before he 
signed it.” 

“Poor Uncle Neil!” said Jean compassionately. “Will 
that make any great difference?” 

Mrs. Mackenzie gazed down an instant into the sweet 
uplifted young face, and reading in its soft lines only 
compassion for the uncle she had loved so dearly, won- 
dered what “parents and guardians” could be thinking of 


126 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


when they left young people so entirely ignorant of the 
actualities of life. Polly, however, was a trifle more 
astute. She had raised herself now from the dependent 
attitude against her cousin’s knee, and a shrewd look 
crossed her lovely face. 

“Why, if he didn’t leave a will,” she said slowly, 
“then — what’s to become of us?” 

“Ah, Polly, my dear little girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie. “Perhaps it is as well for you to be prepared for 
the worst. If, as seems now the case, your uncle failed to 
make provision, you must all start life on just — well, what 
you have been used to spending as pocket-money; for 
everything here will pass away from the old Dykers 
forever!” 

The girls sprang to their feet. 

“Mrs. Mackenzie!” gasped Jean, and Polly, white as 
the wall, was shaking from head to foot. 

“My darlings,” said the good woman, taking a hand of 
each in her own, “I believe this is what we must expect, so 
I thought I ought to prepare you for it; but, after all, 
think for a moment: much worse could have happened to 
you ! It is not loss of good name, nor of each other, nor 
of health and strength and youth, and it may do you worlds 
of good! Why, surely, Jean, you are brave enough to 
stand even a blow like this?” 

For Jean had slowly withdrawn her hand, and walking 
over to the window, stood looking fixedly down into the 
wintry garden. Polly seemed stunned. 

“I — I was not thinking of myself,” said Jean in a low 
voice. In a moment she added: “Must we all go away? 
Aunt Ellen ” 

Mrs. Mackenzie uttered a little cry of despair. 

“O Jean!” she exclaimed; “you are right! That is 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


127 


true. It may be only a little harder fight for you girls, 

but for her However, remember that nothing need be 

said to distress her until we know just what we have to 
expect.” 

“And when shall we know?” came piteously from 
Polly, whose hand was still in Mrs. Mackenzie’s clasp. 

\ “Ah, my darling, only too soon! There is a — person — 
now talking to Mr. Tolies in the library who, perhaps, 
will decide it.” 

And indeed at that very moment Mr. Tolies was saying 
to himself: 

“ Of course we can investigate, but I fear our case is a 
very poor one.” 

And Sandy, trying to quiet Mrs. Malone, was finishing a 
very clear and concise statement of facts, winding up with 
an expression of sympathy for “the family” and an assur- 
ance that “his client” wished them to “take their time.” 

“Upon my word,” declared the old lawyer to Dick 
later, “for apiece of consummate impertinence I never 
heard its equal !” 

And thus night fell upon as strange a scene in the Colo- 
nel’s old home — the home of the honored Dykers — as can 
possibly be imagined. Except in the two rooms occupied 
by the rival lawyers and their irrepressible client or wit- 
ness, Mrs. Malone, and the old schoolroom, where the girls 
sat crouched on the floor each side of Mrs. Mackenzie’s 
chair, there was scarcely any sound of voices and scarcely 
an audible movement. Miss Dyker — for once fortunately 
— had a headache, and, with Cecile in attendance, was in 
her room. The Knapps and Mrs. Keyes had the kitchen 
department to themselves, and Jones, in a condition 
bordering on despair, was “goingover” his master’s ward- 
robe, mentally apostrophizing every garment, and know- 


128 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


ing something of the truth, addressing many a mute 
reproach to a portrait of the Colonel on the wall. Sud- 
denly he remembered “the poor orphins,” as he called 
them, and with a feeling of satisfaction in ranging himself 
against whoever might be “slighting them,” he nearly 
flew downstairs, entering the old schoolroom so uncere- 
moniously that the three friends at the fireside were 
terrified. 

“Oh, it’s only me, my .dears,” said poor Jones, forget- 
ting, in his anxiety, to be deferential. “And to think 
you’re here in the dark, and dinner not ready yet! What- 
ever are those Knapps thinking of!” 

“O Jones!” cried Jean, springing to her feet and run- 
ning up to the faithful friend and servitor of years. “It 
can’t be any harm to tell you , dear Jones; but, perhaps — 
perhaps we must leave the Hill House forever!” 

Jones clutched at the door for support. He had guessed 
at more than he knew, but this was unexpectedly bad. 

“Miss Jean,” he faltered. He peered into the pale, 
sweet face of the young girl he had carried in his arms as 
a baby and taught to walk. “Then it’s well for you, 
miss,” he added solemnly, “ I wasn’t took as well as the 
Colonel.” 

Jean smiled and clasped the old man’s hand alfection- 
ately. 

“Indeed, it is,” she had just begun to say when a quick 
knock sounded on the door. 

“If you please, Mrs. Mackenzie,” said the voice of Mrs. 
Keyes in a high tone of lament, “Mrs. Martin’s sent over 
to say Sarah, ma’am, is took very ill, and the doctor is 
waiting to see you.” 

And so it came about that for the time being, as we 
have seen, all progress in Sarah’s fortunes came to a stand- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


129 


still. Even Mrs. Malone was forced to hold her peace on 
learning that any more excitement might cause Sarah’s 
death. She submitted herself with wonderful docility to 
Sandy’s directions, which were, indeed, more in the form 
of a threat than anything else, and after giving into his 
hands for the use of counsel on both sides the various 
memoranda which her reticule contained, she departed, 
not, however, without remarking that she expected before 
long to visit her “darling niece” in the place which was 
rightfully hers. 


9 


XXI. 


Sarah Malone, or Dalton, as she now must be called, 
was half seated, half reclining in the most comfortable 
easy-chair of the cottage parlor. She was quite alone, an 
unusual thing since the beginning of her illness, just three 
weeks ago, but she had understood for some days past 
that on her first “strong enough” day she was to listen to 
a long story connected with the past, or, at all events, the 
story of the present, which was a sequel to that past, and 
accordingly, with all the will power of her nature, she had 
bent her energies toward as rapid a recovery as possible, 
being docile under every order, quiet when ordered repose, 
ready to do whatever her nurses desired of her, and accord- 
ingly here she was on a snowy winter’s afternoon await- 
ing what she considered her fate; since, for all her own 
satisfaction as to her rights, she was by no means sure 
as to what would be the result of the final meeting held 
that morning in Mr. Tolies’ office. 

Natural vigor of constitution, freedom from any- 
thing like nervousness, and a strong desire to recover 
speedily had, with the perfect care bestowed upon her, 
pulled the young girl through what had at one time 
threatened to be a fatal illness. And there was this 
advantage in her enforced seclusion: she had been spared 
all the worry of business interviews, which would cer- 
tainly have been her portion had she been in any way 
equal to bear the strain. But Sarah, in the seclusion even 
of her sick .room, had never lost sight of certain facts, and 
among them were clearly in her mind two — i. e., that 

130 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


131 


directly she was at all able she must assert her claim to 
take up her residence at the Hill House, and either make 
terms of peace which suited herself with the family or 
send them all to the right-about. She had no idea, as she 
told herself, of allowing anyone to get the better of her, 
and would it not be a fine opportunity of showing Mr. 
William Rogers, as she now began to call him to herself, 
what he had thrown away ! 

It had annoyed her somewhat that Mrs. Mackenzie 
should spend so much of her time with the Hill House 
family, and Sarah was now waiting quite as anxiously for 
that lady’s return from a visit to the children and Miss 
Dyker as for the arrival of “her lawyer” with his special 
information and instructions. 

The door opened at last to admit Sandy, who came in 
with a becoming air of solicitude for the invalid whose 
interests he was still watching so carefully, and Sarah 
roused herself to the usual “give and take” sort of combat 
which they were apt to indulge in. 

“You see I’m a great deal better,” she announced, try- 
ing to sit up very straight in the chair, and looking at him 
as though to challenge any opinion to the contrary, “and 
I’m about tired of waiting for this business to be settled.” 

Sandy had learned that an off-hand manner was decid- 
edly the best to use toward his client, so he said, with a 
careless laugh : 

“And so am I, and I don’t think, my dear girl, you’ll 
have to wait more than another twenty-four hours before 
you can take possession of your own.” 

“ The Hill House !” exclaimed Sarah, sitting upright, the 
color flying into her cheeks. 

“Exactly,” he said; “and now I want to ask you what 
you mean to do there.” 


132 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Sarah laughed. 

“Do, you goose!” she returned; “what would anybody 
do in her own house?” 

She paused an instant, remembering how lonely the 
great rooms would seem with no one but herself to occupy 
them; and yet, what else could be done? 

“I am afraid,” continued Sandy, “that we must make 
some concession to your aunt, Mrs. Malone, and her daugh- 
ter. In fact, they insist upon it, and you don’t w T ant to 
have them making trouble, as they certainly will do. 
They want to live with you if you are going to keep the 
house open.” 

Sarah remained silent for a few moments, her brain 
working more actively than it had done for a long time. 
As I have said, her cleverness was precisely the kind 
which takes a common-sense view of any situation, and 
she realized that since she could not live alone in the large 
house it would be far better to have some of her own people 
with her. Moreover, it would afford her immense satis- 
faction to be the mistress of such a place with Mrs. Malone 
as her dependent or visitor. Naturally she had not the 
least idea just what their methods of life would be, but it 
had occurred to her mind that they might close up several 
of the rooms, using only what they actually required. She 
would keep the great drawing-room open, she had decided, 
chiefly because she intended to invite Will Rogers and his 
sisters to call upon her there. Poor Sarah ! Never was 
heiress so little qualified for the new state of life to whicli 
she was called, and she was keen enough to be w T ell aware 
of her own shortcomings, yet too proud to wish to appear 
ignorant enough to need advice. Sand} r , however, 
appealed to her as belonging more directly to her own 
class, and moreover, she had an idea that, as he was in her 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


133 


pay, she had a right to his services, no matter in what 
branch they might be required. 

“Well, now, see here,” said Sarah, “I mean logo and 
live in that house, if it’s only for six months, just to show 
it’s mine; but of course I can’t stay there alone. What 
do you say to my letting the Malones come up?” 

“ I say just this,” said Sandy : “ if you do we may as well 
shake hands and say good-by” — a threat he had found very 
effectual before. “You can have them up to spend a day 
or two now and then, but nothing more. If I could have 
induced Mrs. Mackenzie to live there with you, that would 
be all very well, but I have consulted with your guardian.” 

Sarah interrupted him. 

“That’s Dr. Fraser, isn’t it?” she inquired, for although 
the good doctor had been chosen as a suitable guardian for 
the girl, he had not so far said much in his new capacity. 

“Exactly,” said Sandy; “and he agrees with me in 
thinking that if you insist on living in the Hill House, 
even for a time, you should have a suitable companion — 
a lady just such as other girls, Sarah, in the upper class 
of life would have as a companion.” 

Sarah remained puzzled in thought for a moment. 

“A companion?” she repeated. “What for? I don’t 
see, if I want company, why I can’t have all I choose to 
ask. I aint blind, nor weak in my head, nor a foreigner, 
as I can see, so as to need somebody to be always around 
after me,” said Sarah. 

Sandy, it may be observed, was entirely deficient in a 
sense of humor, or his annoyance would have been merged 
into the ridiculous side of the situation. As it was, the 
girl simply exasperated him. 

“See here, Sarah,” he said almost roughly, “you talk 
about being a lady, and I wonder how long it will take 


134 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


you to keep your mouth shut on subjects you don’t under- 
stand. It was all very well when you were just Mrs. 
Malone’s niece to run about the country any kind of way. 
No one thought anything of it. But,” continued Sandy 
with a very superior manner, “in our class of life girls 
don’t do that sort of thing. They wouldn’t live alone, for 
instance, keeping house for themselves. How can I 
explain it to you?” he concluded desperately. “ To do the 
right thing, you ought to have some elderly lady, a widow 
or something of that kind, to live with you as your friend, 
so to speak.” 

“Boss me,” said Sarah, with a curl of her lip; but indeed 
the girl was beginning dimly to understand what Sandy 
meant, yet felt driven to torment him a little further 
before she acknowledged that she understood, even if she 
could not agree with him. 

“No,” he almost shouted; “that’s a thing I don’t 
believe any created being ever could do; but if you had 
the right sort of person she would teach you a great many 
things you would be very glad to know.” 

“ Well,” said Sarah finally, “ 1 suppose you must be right, 
and I shouldn’t wonder,” she added, with a gay little 
laugh, “if all this talk doesn’t mean that you’ve got the 
person right in your mind’s eye this minute, Sandy Mac- 
kenzie.” 

The girl rose, laughing, and shook her finger at him. 

“I declare,” thought Mackenzie to himself as he looked 
up at the slim young figure, the face refined by illness, 
really quite charming as she stood there, “as soon as the 
proper time comes I shall certainly make known my own 
intentions, for I’m very much mistaken if another year 
won’t make a fine woman of her, and she’s smart enough 
to be a match for anyone.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


135 


“I was coming to that,” he said aloud. “Dr. Fraser 
has suggested exactly the proper person, a former patient 
of his, a widow lady with one little girl.” 

Sarah interrupted him briskty. 

“No, sir, thank you,” she announced; “I don’t want 
any young ones around.” 

“ Will you keep still a moment?” demanded Sandy. 
“The child is at school, and this Mrs. Holmes is boarding 
in Albany, and ready to take any such position. My aunt 
will tell you precisely what she would do and be when 
with you.” 

“Well, if I must, I must,” said Sarah. “Only she’d 
better hurry up, for I mean to get into the house just as 
soon as I can. By the way,” she added suddenly, “what 
are the others up there going to do? I hear they’re 
pretty well packed up.” 

Sandy flushed. The one miserable part in all this busi- 
ness had been Jean Garnier’s distinct avoidance of him on 
the few occasions when he might have spoken with her. 
What she thought he could only conjecture, for of course 
she had not expressed the slightest opinion, but he could 
well imagine that she believed him a — cad. 

“They are only anxious now,” he said quietly, “to be 
away. I understand that they are going to New York, to 
some friends of Mr. Appleton’s.” 

“Visiting?” inquired Sarah. 

Sandy laughed dismally. 

“They are going into lodgings,” he said in a harsh, 
dull voice. “Miss Gamier is quite an artist and expects 
to do something in that line. Polly will probably go to a 
public school, and old Miss Dyker will live with them. 
So you see, Sarah,” he added, with a sneer, “you have 
done a fine piece of work for everyone concerned.” 


136 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


The girl’s eyes fell. She was glad of her triumph over 
those who, she had considered, looked down upon her, and 
yet it hurt her now to think of them as actually suffering 
through her good fortune. 

“Isn’t there any way,” she began slowly, “to help them 
on?” 

But this was precisely what Sandy did not wish under- 
taken. So long as he knew they would not be in actual 
want he had no intention of permitting his client to mix 
herself up with the family affairs of those whom she had 
superseded. There should be a new start on all sides, and 
he made haste to say : 

“You don’t know them as I do, Sarah, and they -would 
be greatly insulted if you even suggested such a thing.” 

“Oh, well, I only mentioned it,” flashed the girl. “So 
they’re going, are they?” she continued. “And how soon 
can this Mrs. What-do-you-call-her be ready to come? 
Dear me, that ’ll be another stranger to get mixed up with, 
won’t it? Those days I was sick upstairs I used to feel in 
a perfect whirl when I thought of all the new acquaint- 
ances I’ve got.” 

“But / was an old friend, Sarah,” said Sandy, with his 
really pleasant smile. Perhaps because he had bestowed 
it upon her so seldom lately — possibty because it brought 
back in a flash the remembrance of that day at the county 
fair, when she had been so happy in receiving his atten- 
tions — Sarah felt her heart beat a little quickly, and she 
answered in a gentle tone: 

“Yes, but you’re the only one I’ve got. I feel,” she 
added, a curious wistfulness creeping over her face, “just 
as, if I wanted friends now, I’d have to go out and buy 
them.” She gave a little half-hysterical laugh. “Wouldn’t 
it be funny,” she went on, “to go into a store and say to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


137 


the man, ‘If you please, I’d like five friends and a 
half’?” 

She laughed gayly at her own conceit, and remembered 
what good fun she and Will Rogers had had over their 
jokes together. What a pity it seemed that, young as he 
was, her lawyer should be so solemn, and he made it worse 
by saying gravely : 

“Sarah, you talk a great deal of nonsense, and you’d 
better take care how you do it when you set up for being 
a fine lad}".” 

The girl started from her chair and whirled around, fac- 
ing him with the expression he had only seen once or 
twice before upon her face. 

“ Now see here, Sandy Mackenzie!” she exclaimed. “I 
guess you don’t know me yet. Not much ! You may be 
my lawyer, and I may have to have a guardian, or what- 
ever you call him, and a companion lady to tag round 
after me, all because I happen to have a house and a little 
money, but I don’t need you to try and make me all over 
again. I guess,” the girl added, with a laugh, “if it’s 
coming to that I’ll have to engage another kind of a some- 
body. We’d make quite a procession when w T e w r alked 
out, wouldn’t we?” 

“ Well, then,” said Sandy, decidedly nettled, but obliged 
to admit to himself that he had gone too far, “let us keep, 
then, to the main points of the interview. Your idea, as 
I understand it, is to move at once into the House and 
begin for yourself.” He paused for a moment, and 
added: “ Miss Dalton of the Hill House." 

“That’s it,” she assented. “I’d like that Jean,” she 
added, “if she wasn’t so stuck-up, for she’s got the right 
kind of a look about her, and I wish, some way or other, 
she’d keep friends with me.” 


138 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


A gleam of Lope shot across Sandy’s heart. 

“ Sarah !” he exclaimed, springing to his feet, “ will you 
let me do one thing for you, and that is tell Jean Gamier 
just what you have said ? and you never uttered a wiser 
saying. If you could make a friend of that girl, let me 
tell you, it would be the making of you.” 

“Ah,” said Sarah, the wistfulness which had been in her 
face before coming back, “ignorant as you think me, 
Sandy, I know better than you. Jean Gamier might be 
very kind to me, but she’d be a hundred miles off from 
treating me like a friend” 

Sandy was silenced, perfectly well aware that Sarah’s 
intuitive perceptions on some points were better than all 
his good management; and having settled the main points 
of their interview, and made her understand that she was 
free to take up her residence in the Hill House as soon as the 
family had vacated it, he was now only waiting Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s return to take his departure, and turned the con- 
versation to a subject which he was sure would interest 
her without much argument. 

“Do you know,” he observeed with a smile, “that you 
have the right to a bank account and to draw as much 
money as you like? Don’t you want to buy some of the 
things girls generally like to wear?” 

Sarah’s eyes sparkled. 

“I guess I do,” she answered, and proceeded immedi- 
ately to inflict upon her lawyer a list of the various things 
she intended to purchase, not being entirely sure as yet 
whether attending to them was part of his business, or if 
the money was to be placed in her own hands. But on 
this point Sandy felt that he must make matters very clear 
to her. 

“Sarah,” he said gravely, “this will really all be in the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


139 


hands of your guardian. You will see him to-morrow or 
the next day, and then it will be his place to talk all this 
over with you.” * 

Sarah’s brows drew together slightly. 

“See here,” she said suddenly; “he’s been attending to 
me since I was sick. Can he pay his own bill to himself, 
or shall I say something about it?” 

It could scarcely have been from Philip Dalton that 
Sarah had imbibed the clear and downright sort of honesty 
which was her most admirable characteristic. Spendthrift 
she might become, intoxicated by sudden wealth, and 
moved by natural generosity of spirit; but to defraud a 
human being of his honest dues in any matter would have 
been impossible toiler. Her sense of justice, having no 
peculiar sentiment attached to it, had made it in no way 
difficult for her to claim possession of the old home of the 
Dykers, but to have outdone them by so much as a picture 
frame which was theirs by right would have been impos- 
sible to her, and it is a question whether, on the whole, her 
kind of integrity was not more satisfactory than that of 
many people who would make a sentiment out of refusing 
what was theirs by right and go in debt because they had 
not enforced the claim. 

“Certainly,” said Sandy, and then it occurred to him as 
a fitting time to mention his own services. “And while 
we are speaking of these things,” he said carelessly, “you 
must remember there are my expenses.” 

“Why, good gracious,” exclaimed Sarah, “I should 
think I do! Why, you’ve attended to most everything. 
But, of course,” she added, “you can settle that all up for 
yourself, can’t you, when it comes to my getting any 
money?” 

“ Is she entirely sincere, a miracle of honesty, or a fool?” 


140 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


thought Sandy, looking at the girl’s candid young counte- 
nance as she faced him. As for Sarah, she simply won- 
dered that he should have bothered to ask such a question, 
and it may have been as well that at this point Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s step sounded in the hall, and in another moment 
she was in the room. 

A look sprang into the girl’s face on seeing her hostess, 
which, had Mrs. Mackenzie not felt such a sense of griev- 
ance against her, would have gone to the widow’s tender 
heart. But, as a matter of fact, she had just left the deso- 
late little family at the Hill House, all of whose lives 
seemed to have been jarred upon, broken into, confused, 
and all but maimed by the discovery of this new claimant 
to the estate. It was all very well for Mrs. Mackenzie to 
feel glad that the girls were to learn something of the 
reality of life, but it had hurt her like a physical pain to 
see them gathering together all their special treasures, dis- 
mantling rooms which they had known from infancy of 
every little souvenir which they were justified in claiming 
for their own, while the actual helplessness of Miss Dyker 
in regard to the impending change had really alarmed her. 
She had begged the older lady to remain with her, but 
Miss Dyker would not hear of it. She would not, could 
not, leave the children, and as she wisely enough said, when 
they had made their start in New York, as they intended 
doing next week, they would assuredly need some 
chaperone. 

“But 1 declare,” Mrs. Mackenzie had reflected as she 
walked down the old familiar avenue to the cottage, “poor 
Ellen is the greatest child among them all. Still, as Dick 
says, she will be a protection and comfort to them.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie had written to a friend in New York 
giving a brief outline of the state of affairs, and request- 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


141 


lug her to engage even temporary apartments in some 
quiet, suitable neighborhood for the party, who, she 
realized, had better make the break while all their energies 
were stirred into action than postpone it until the excite- 
ment had given way to a chilling consciousness that their 
loss was one to affect them at every turn. And Jean’s 
womanliness, her wisdom, her quick executive ability, had 
almost startled Mrs. Mackenzie. It was the young girl 
Jean in one sense no longer. The clearness, decision, and 
the bravery of womanhood had come to her, as it were, a 
very gift of Heaven from this need of work; a power of 
endurance seemed to be within her which she realized as 
the poor Colonel’s only legacy. 


XXII. 


It was a large room, a studio, even though it may not 
have been originally designed for the purpose; but when 
George Carrington fell heir to the house he determined at 
once that it should be his workshop. There were high 
lights from one side — that fronting on the side street — 
while two windows overlooked Benton Square, a small, 
not over well-kept park, yet giving a certain dignity to 
this east-side locality, and moving Carrington’s sister to 
observe that it “looked well on your cards, if not in 
reality.” 

But visiting cards were scarcely in Miss Carrington’s 
line, her occupations being of so peculiarly domestic a 
character that her calls, generally speaking, were only upon 
the tradespeople in the neighborhood. 

On a certain chilly morning toward the end of Febru- 
ary Miss Carrington, having concluded various domestic 
matters below stairs, was seated before one of the many 
tables in her brother’s studio, with sundry small papers 
and account-books spread out before her, while the painter, 
a tall, well-built young man, with a thoughtful but exceed- 
ingly pleasant face, was busy putting finishing touches to 
a good-sized picture on an easel before him. 

“If I was only sure , George,” said Miss Carrington sud- 
denly, and turning a very anxious face in the direction of 
her brother’s broad shoulders and close-cropped blond 
head, “just how to account for that liver” 

Mr. Carrington, it may be observed, was accustomed to 

142 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


143 


his sister’s bringing these — to him entirely uninteresting — 
household details into the studio, and to listening to vari- 
ous remarks of the kind without paying the smallest atten- 
tion to what they meant. However, as he was well aware, 
they called for a certain kind of response, so he said in a 
careless tone : 

“Oh, I presume the cat ate it.” 

“ George ,” exclaimed Miss Carrington, “what an idea! 
Of course she didn’t, and you know how careful I have to 
be, and what do you suppose we are going to do when 
these friends of Mrs. Mackenzie come in case they should 
ask for a lunch?” 

“Do you mean,” suggested George without pausing in 
his work, “because there won’t be some liver for them to 
eat as soon as they arrive?” 

Fortunately for the artist’s peace of mind Miss Carring- 
ton had plunged into fresh housekeeping details, and was 
beginning to jot small items on a piece of paper by her 
note-book to the accompaniment of a German air which 
Carrington presently began to w'histle. 

“1 wish, George,” she resumed presently, “you would 
take a little interest in the way I have the rooms arranged 
for them.” 

“ Where’s the duchess?” inquired George, now really 
roused. 

“Do you ask me such a question as that?” demanded 
his sister, “ when you know perfectly well she is making 
that costume upstairs for you and neglecting everything 
else?” 

Heedless of Miss Carrington’s remark, he opened the 
door of the long room and gave a low, soft, but peculiar 
whistle, standing back in the shadowy hall with an amused 
expression, while he awaited a response. 


144 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


There was the sound presently of an 0]:>ening door 
upstairs, then a voice sang in a very clear contralto: 

“ Du, du liegst mil* im Herzen, 

Du, du liegst mir im sinn.” 

And at the top of the wide, old-fashioned staircase a 
girl’s figure slowly appeared in view. As she came down, 
still humming the air half under her breath, a very grace- 
ful little figure and a fair young face were revealed. Her 
gown of dull blue cloth was made artistically, so that it 
had almost the effect of a fancy costume, with high puffed 
sleeves, a short round waist, and a quaint little rolling 
collar. But Carrington’s younger sister revelled, as she 
put it, in contributing to the artistic element of the house 
by dressing as nearly like one of her brother’s favorite 
ideals as possible, and in fact the style became her so well 
that she could easity be forgiven any eccentricity it sug- 
gested. 

“Come along, duchess,” he exclaimed I’ve been wait- 
ing half an hour for you.” 

And he led the way back into the studio, where the 
elder sister was still wrestling with her accounts. 

“George,” she pleaded, lifting a pair of very mild eyes 
in anxious supplication, “if 3^011 keep Linda posing there 
for the next hour what do you suppose I am going to do 
about the rooms upstairs, and where is that Miss Barton, 
I should like to know, whom 3 r ou engagedonly last week?” 

“Where she generally is,” said Carrington, with a laugh 
— “spending her money on something new in the way of 
parasols or boots to dazzle the boys with the next time she 
goes down to the Academy. Linda will answer capitally 
for this morning; only, my dear child,” he said plead- 
ingly, “don't look as if you had lost every friend.” 

Linda, having resumed in the most nonchalant manner 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


145 


the pose she had started for her brother’s picture the day 
before, had allowed her pretty features to assume the most 
miserable expression. 

“ You can’t be thinking of liver, too,” he went on. 
“Now cheer up and look festive, and remember, if you 
please, that this is probably the last day we will have our 
ancestral halls to ourselves.” 

“And so much the better,” put in Miss Carrington 
decidedly, while her brother began to make rapid strokes 
with his charcoal, “for indeed, George, as I have long 
said, it was a shame not to put the house to some practical 
use. The only fear I have is that these people will not 
like what we have to offer them.” 

And now George did turn around for a practical under- 
standing of the case. 

“My dear Kate,” he said very quietly, but with 
unwonted firmness in his tone, “there is no earthly use of 
worrying yourself or me on the subject for the present, 
since, as you well know, they are only to be here for a day 
or two until they find some home or abiding place to suit 
them better. We are not even called upon to entertain 
them; and as you have arranged it, so far as I remember, 
they are to have the floor to themselves entirely independ- 
ent cf us. I really do not see how they will interfere 
with us any more than if they were in the next block, and 
if you will take my advice you won’t begin by worrying 
too much about it.” 

Miss Carrington, who was always immensely pleased 
and flattered by her brother’s really entering into any 
household question with her, adopted his view of the case 
at once. 

“And, George,” she said a little anxiously, “you will 
try to make yourself agreeable to them, will you not?” 

10 


146 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“No,” said George very decidedly, “I do not think I 
shall. That is” — as he observed a look of alarm gathering 
upon Miss Kate’s face — “I do not mean, of course, that I 
shall shout and howl at them to keep out of my way, and 
so forth, but I shall, except so far as common politeness 
goes, keep out of their way. Imagine my coming into the 
studio, for instance, and finding it occupied like a family 
front parlor! Moreover, you must remember that, as they 
have lived so long in the country, they are likely to be 
unbearably sociable. You would want, I suppose, to imme- 
diately take out your knitting and ask them to do the same, 
and sit around my fire here while I was trying to work.” 

He laughed, and Linda gave way to unrestrained merri- 
ment. 

“George,” said his eldest sister gravely, “I don’t know 
whether you are unkind or only ridiculous.” 

“I think I’m ridiculous,” he said quietly; “but, joking 
aside, Kitty, I don’t quite like the idea of having my 
peace and quietness invaded, and I’ll be ever so much 
obliged to you, old girl, if you’ll only see to it that I have 
very little to do or say in the matter at all. IIow many of 
them are there, by the way? Some eighteen or twenty, I 
gather, from what you were saying last night.” 

“George,” exclaimed Miss Carrington with real sever- 
ity, “there are two young ladies and an elderly lady, their 
aunt, and possibly a man-servant, who is merely coming 
to see them safely here.” 

“Well, that’s trial enough,” said George, going back to 
his work, and rubbing his hands disconsolately over his 
head. “Never mind; hand me that pipe, Linda, like a 
good girl and let’s go back to business; it may be the last- 
peaceful hour, my child, your good sister intends we shall 
ever know.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


147 


But Kate, although she said very little, was of quite 
a different opinion. When Mrs. Mackenzie’s letter had 
arrived the day before, requesting her old friend Kate 
Carrington to receive the Colonel’s little family for a day 
or two until they should decide where to establish them- 
selves in the great metropolis, Miss Carrington had hailed 
the idea with delight, in spite of some anxiety as to just 
how it should be managed, since, unlike her brother and 
younger sister, the good little woman dearly loved what- 
ever roused and stimulated her housekeeping propensities. 
There was small satisfaction, as she often averred, in wast- 
ing her time upon the other two members of the family, 
since, as she once declared, her brother only knew whether 
the dinner table looked picturesque or not, and Linda had 
an absolute disregard for anything approaching details of 
domestic life. 

“ As long as they can get new draperies or pick up , as 
they call it, a piece of uncomfortable furniture, here or 
there, for the studio, the pair of them would never know,” 
Miss Kate had remarked, “whether they were eating their 
dinner on the top of the piano or the parlor sofa.” 

Certainly it was what might be called a Bohemian house- 
hold, and Miss Kate bore the burden of making both ends 
meet in a spirit which was truly heroic, although it must 
be confessed that attending to all such matters formed the 
excitement and pleasure, if the frequent vexation, of her 
daily life, and her pride in her talented brother and sister 
was more than she ever dared to let them see. The trio had 
been left, when young, almost alone in the world, but it had 
united them by a bond of sympathy strong enough to make 
their differences in temperament forgotten, or, I might 
almost better say, the practical common-sense of Miss 
Kate had been the very best balance for the visionary 


148 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


point of view so often taken by George and Linda. What, 
however, few people guessed or knew was the amount of 
real self-denial of the brother in order that his sisters 
might have the best that the common purse would allow 
them. Keen-eyed as Miss Kate was, she did not always 
discover why her brother’s clothes were shabby, or when 
he took a miserably poor price for some piece of work 
which, with a trifling delay, might have brought him 
fame. 

Mrs. Mackenzie had been a friend of long standing, 
although the opportunities for intercourse had not been 
frequent, and it was with a view to conferring mutual 
benefit that she had written Miss Carrington, requesting 
as a personal favor that the Hill House family might go at 
once to Benton Square on their arrival in New York. She 
had made it very clear that the means of the family were 
limited, and that they must look about, not only for some 
suitable abiding place, but, it might be, for some occupa- 
tion; and Miss Carrington had decided within her own 
mind that if, when a day or two had passed by, their vis- 
itors should prove congenial associates, she would try to 
enter into some arrangement whereby they might take up 
their home permanently with them. There were rooms 
and to spare in the old-fashioned house, and there had 
been frequent attempts made to utilize them, but unfortu- 
nately the apartments had generally been let to some out- 
at-elbows friends of Carrington’s who were in need of a 
home without the means of paying for one, and for some 
months past Miss Kate had not suggested their doing anj^- 
thing of the kind, dreading a recurrence of the same 
experience, which had usually resulted in Carrington’s 
being his tenants’ banker as w^ell as landlord. 

It had pleased and stirred all Miss Kate’s housewifely 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


149 


instincts to make even sncli slight preparations as she had 
been able to carry out for her expected guests, and as it 
had been decided they would require only the use of the 
rooms, she had arranged a front upper chamber as a cheer- 
ful parlor, with a suggestion, as she called it, of a means 
for a little light housekeeping. Shabby and worn as the 
furniture might be, it, like the fortunes of the family, had 
been of the best in its day, and the high, old-fashioned 
chimney-pieces, deep windows, and lofty ceilings gave the 
rooms a dignity and charm of their own, which, as Miss 
Kate often remarked, quite made up for the decayed gen- 
tility of the neighborhood. 

Within an hour after this brief consultation in the 
studio, the Hill House party, rather a bewildered and dis- 
mayed one so far as Jean and Polly were concerned, were 
on their way to the address Mrs. Mackenzie had given 
them. Jones had been their escort, since it was absolutely 
necessary at the last moment for Dick to remain a day or 
two in Albany and arrange certain matters which would 
leave him free to take up his abode in New York. To 
have lingered longer in Thornton would have been unen- 
durable, and confused as the girls felt, they were glad on 
the whole, of the relief which their departure occasioned, 
and Jean felt the necessity of keeping up a brave outward 
appearance, at least before Miss Dyker, who was inclined' 
at every moment to give way to complete despair. 


XXIII. 


“Two cabs,” said Miss Kate in an undertone. She was 
standing in the front parlor window, watching the arrival 
of their expected guests. No such pleasurable excitement 
had occurred in the good little lady’s life for some time, 
and she was undecided as to whether it w^as exactly her 
place to run down the steps and welcome them or to 
occupy a dignified and smiling position in the parlor. 
Linda had become unaccountably shy, or she certainly 
would have been out upon the doorstep before the Hill 
House party had fairly left their carriages, and as for 
George, he had wandered away saying, in a quiet fashion, 
that he presumed there would be confusion enough with- 
out adding his presence to it. 

It was with a quick sense of relief that on entering, 
Jean, who had the party in charge, observed the quiet and 
refined air of the old house, and Miss Kate, stepping for- 
ward w r ith her little, somewhat antiquated, but very sw T eet 
company manners, won their good will at once. Linda 
made, as usual, what her brother called a “picturesque 
bit” in the background. 

“This is Miss Dyker, I am sure,” said Miss Kate, full 
of hospitality and pleasure in being hostess to such a party. 
“Like old times,” she was thinking to herself. “How do 
you feel, ma’am, after your journey?” She was leading 
the w 7 ay back into the parlor. “And these young ladies 

are Miss Jean and Miss Polly, I presume, and ” She 

glanced at the dignified Jones, who with his usual tact 
made haste to explain himself. 

150 


A FAMILY • DILEMMA . 


151 


“I’m Jones, ma’am, if you please,” he said quietly; “and 
as I’ve been with them since they were only babies I 
couldn’t let them start on such a journey alone. I’ve been 
boy and man with the Colonel, ma’am,” he continued, 
“for five-and -twenty years.” 

“And he’s among our best friends now,” said Jean, 
with her pretty smile, while Miss Kate felt more and more 
satisfied that her guests, as she chose to call them, w'ould 
be precisely after her own heart. 

“And of course,” Jean went on, “though we’ve had to 
introduce ourselves, this is Miss Carrington?” 

Miss Kate laughed. 

“Miss Kate, you must call me,” she exclaimed. “I 
never took the name the other way since our elder sister 
died;” and she went on quickly, “this is my sister Linda.” 

Linda moved forward with a sort of reluctant grace, and 
.stood smiling while the greetings were exchanged. 

“Linda and I are housekeeping together,” said Miss 
Kate, “and it has given us such pleasure to make ready 
for you. My dear,” she said, turning to her younger sis- 
ter, “do you take the ladies up to their rooms, and the 
man and I will attend to the luggage.” 

Linda, leading the way upstairs, made an apology for 
having to place them on the third story of the house, but, 
as she told them, and they at once discovered, it had its 
great advantages in possessing larger rooms, better air, 
and an outlook from the windows which Jean thought 
picturesque in the extreme Far above the din and bustle 
of the streets they could see a jumble of roof tops, chim- 
neys, and church steeples against a sky of varying winter 
brightness; and when they turned back to look at the old- 
fashioned apartment, Jean’s artistic sense was still further 
gratified, for, as I have said, the house was one of those 


152 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


built when dwellers in the great city had more leisure to 
plan a dwelling and more fondness for considering it a 
permanent home. A low wainscot skirted the walls, above 
which was dark blue cartridge paper, one of Linda’s 
extravagances, when she and George had considered them- 
selves justified in fitting up that portion of the house. 
The chimney-piece was high and heavily carved, and the 
fireplace, if not very large, had a quaint look about it sug- 
gestive of a comfortable cup of afternoon tea. The room 
had been prepared as a sort of sitting room for the party, 
and beyond were two sleeping apartments plainly but com- 
fortably furnished, while a tiny room at the end of the 
hall would answer every purpose for a trunk room, and 
possibly afford a shelter at any time for the obliging 
Jones, who, to remain with the young ladies, would 
willingly have slept in an armchair. 

Whatever the girls had been dreading and expecting, 
this was such a relief in every sense that Jean felt almost 
as though there had been no sacrifice at all in going out to 
seek their fortunes, and unfortunately made up her mind 
at once that, with such a beginning, there could be very 
few trials ahead. She only wished that, as had been sug- 
gested, Dick could so arrange matters as to follow them in a 
day or two. lie had on parting expressed a hope that this 
could be managed. 

Linda left them as soon as, to use her own expres- 
sion, she had “given them their bearings,” and at once 
Jean called upon Miss Dyker to express some satisfaction 
with their new home. But unfortunately the old lady 
could not share her niece’s satisfaction. 

“You see, my dear,” she said in her gentle voice, while, 
having insisted upon her taking the easiest chair, Jean 
removed the old lady’s bonnet and cloak. “ I’m afraid I’m 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


153 


too old for changes of this kind. But of course I would 
rather be with you girls here or anywhere than in a palace 
without you.” 

Jean fully understood and appreciated what her aunt 
felt, and determined that if there was any way of making 
up to her for what she had lost in added gentleness, con- 
sideration, and, indeed, it might be, forbearance, she 
would certainly bend every energy to doing it. Polly, 
fortunately, seemed as well pleased as Jean herself by her 
inspection of the rooms, which she had made with her 
most critical air, having examined into details which Jean 
would have passed unnoticed, and in less than an hour the 
trunks had been put in their places and Jones was ready 
for a brief consultation with Jean as to what he was to do 
next. 

It had been understood on their leaving that Jones would 
merely act as escort and return to the Hill House, to con- 
clude such preparations as were needed to make it ready for 
its new Occupancy. It was a trial to part with him, but 
Jean was thankful that the man was tolerably well off and 
would be able to take time to look about him before entering 
into any new service, a thing he had declared would be 
dreadful to him after his long years with the Colonel. 

“And of course it isn’t good-by, Jones,” said Jean. 
“You know you are and always will be one of ourselves, 
and be sure to let us hear from you directly.” 

Jones took and clasped his young lady’s hand in both of 
his, while tears rose to his honest eyes. 

“Never you fret, Miss Jean,” he said, solemnly, in fare- 
well, “as I told you before, it’s well I wasn’t took along 
with the Colonel, and you’ll never want for anything old 
Jones can do for you as long as he lives.” 

It would have touched and gratified Jones inexpressibly 


154 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


had he known that, on retracing her steps to their new 
apartment, Jean felt that the good-by to him indicated a 
complete break in all that she had called home life. But 
there were, there must be, reflected Jean, no sentimental 
regrets, and Polly’s first question roused her to a practical 
view of their position. 

“Jean,” said her cousin anxiously, “did we arrange 
whether we’re to board here or not?” 

Jean laughed. 

“Which means that like myself you are hungry,” she 
said gayly. “But it was distinctly understood that we 
were not to board here. The one stipulation that Miss 
Kate made when she w r rote to Mrs. Mackenzie was that we 
would provide our own meals. She said there were restau- 
rants on all sides in the neighborhood.” 

“Anyway,” said Polly confidently, recalling her last 
visit to New York, “we can always go to Delmonico’s, 
can’t we? You remember Uncle Neil took us there for 
lunch, and we saw ever so many ladies at the tables by 
themselves.” 

Jean laughed, but rather sadly. 

“My dear Pollikins,” she said, laying her hand very 
gently on the girl’s shoulder, “don’t you know that we are 
a great way off in more senses than one from dining at 
Delmonico’s? Very soon we must set up housekeeping 
for ourselves, for I am afraid restaurants at any price will 
be beyond us.” 

“But, Jean!” exclaimed Polly, “do you mean that we 
shall have to cook for ourselves?” 

Her tone was almost tragic. 

“Mrs. Mackenzie explained to me all about it,” said 
Jean very confidently. “It’s what they call light house- 
keeping, and I believe I will try to find Miss Kate this 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


155 


minute and make some enquiry on the subject at once. I 
don’t know how you feel,” she added, “but I am rapidly 
reaching starvation.” 

Leaving Polly to comfort or minister to Miss Dyker’s 
wants, Jean went slowly out of their room and down the 
wide, old-fashioned staircase, wondering just where she 
could find the mistress of the house. Everything in the 
main hall was absolutely still. Jean opened the parlor 
door, and finding that room vacant, went on, wondering 
whether the doorway below led into the dining room of 
the house, and as she stood there irresolutely an instant, 
the door was opened suddenly, and a tall, broad-shouldered 
young man, with short blond hair and a close-trimmed 
blond beard and mustache, stepped out into the hall. 

Jean drew back, with a little exclamation of surprise, 
whereupon George Carrington colored violently, but said, 
with his genial manner: 

“I beg your pardon, but — I ought to introduce myself. 
I am George Carrington, and perhaps I have the pleasure 
of speaking to one of my sister’s friends.” 

Jean extended her hand quickly, and thought, if a trifle 
careless in his dress and perhaps a little offhand in his 
manner, Mr. Carrington looked a thorough gentleman. 

He turned, leading the way back into his studio, and 
Jean, recognizing at once that it was an artist’s workshop, 
uttered a little cry of pleasure. 

“Oh, Mr. Carrington!” she exclaimed.. “ now I feel 
better pleased than ever.” 

She stood still in the centre of the room, her eyes wan- 
dering from one point to another, while Carrington made 
haste to say : 

“How is that? Are you accustomed to studio life?” 

“Oh, no,” said Jean quickly; “but you see I know I 


156 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


have to earn my living, and the only hope I have of doing 
it is with such little talent for drawing as i may possess.” 

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Carrington, “so that is 
your bent, is it?” 

He smiled indulgently. He was so used to hearing girls 
say they could draw, and, pleasant as this girl w r as to look 
upon, he groaned inwardly, wondering if she would expect 
to have him develop her talent. 

“Perhaps,” she went on, looking at him gently, “in a 
day or two, Mr. Carrington, you will he able to give me 
some advice. I am not looking for fame,” she added, 
smiling, “only for whatever will bring me bread and 
butter.” 

“Then, indeed, if you have any sort of ability, I may 
be able to help you very materially Miss Gamier,” ex- 
claimed Carrington. He paused, and looked at her with 
a smile. “ Fame,” he added, “is an illusive goddess, and 
I am inclined to think that tempting as her laurels are, the 
humbler workers in the field have the best of it, for her 
crown is full of thorns.” 

Jean listened with kindling eyes. 

“I know,” she said eagerly, her delicate, expressive face 
lighting up as she spoke; “} 7 et in anyone wdth the art 
instinct, so to speak, must there not be something as a 
goal which we know to be far, very far beyond our reach? 
We strive for heaven, don’t we — yet have to close our 
eyes when we think of all that it can mean.” 

Carrington looked at the girl with a curious expression 
in his deep-set blue eyes. 

“There is no way to define or gauge the feeling,” he 
said presently; “you have given it as much expression as 
though you had spoken for an hour, but, to understand 
that afflatus , let us call it, you must either have the gift 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


157 


itself, or perhaps, what is rarer still, a keen sense of feel- 
ing, of appreciation .” 

“I have only a little, small vein of ability,” said Jean, 
with a smile; “just, as I have said, something which may 
add a few comforts to my aunt’s life, but I love your 
art too well ever to travesty it with attempting anything 
great. 1 have a certain faculty,” she went on, assuming a 
businesslike tone, “for character sketching — at least, so I 
am told. When we were travelling, for instance, I could 
always make a rapid sketch of a scene which people said, 
however badly done, gave a good idea of its points. Do 
you see? It is my drawing that is so execrable.” 

Carrington smiled with pleasure. 

“Delightful!” he exclaimed, “if indeed you really have 
this kind of savais — that’s a term you will have to learn 
how to use — then you may keep the pot boiling, as you 
say, for a good illustrator is always in demand.” 

“But to illustrate,” said Jean anxiously, “one must 
understand more than merely putting a picture together. 
I talked it over once with an American in Paris, and he 
told me a great many useful things.” 

“ Of course. For instance, you must know how to com- 
pose your picture, and how to illustrate your text, and how 
to interest thereby the reader of the same.” 

“Yes,” said Jean slowly; “and I fancy I could do that. 
Whenever I read a story I find myself almost unconsciously 
illustrating it in my own mind. I see it in pictures.” 

“ We shall see, we shall see,” said Carrington tolerantly. 
“I must introduce my friend Baldwin to you. He drops 
in any evening, and can give you the best of advice, and 
you must show him some of your work.” 

“Oh,” exclaimed Jean; “it is all very crude, but if 
only it is hopeful I don’t care how hard I have to work.” 


158 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Never mind, time will tell,” said Carrington. He 
hesitated, looking at her with newly awakened interest, 
and Jean said suddenly, and with a laugh and blush 
together : 

“Oh, Mr. Carrington, just fancy, I came here on an 
errand. A very prosaic one, away oft* from art gossip. 
Can you tell me where to find your sister?” 

“Linda?” He opened the door, gave their little whistle, 
and in a few moments the duchess, as from an old time 
joke he called her, appeared. She raised her eyebrows 
rather quizzically on seeing Jean and Carrington together, 
remembering his dread of intrusion, but directly Jean had 
made known the condition of the party upstairs Linda 
suggested taking Jean out to the neighboring stores, so 
that in future she would understand where to go or send 
in such emergencies. 

“I don’t believe you’re used to this kind of thing, Miss 
Gamier,” said Linda, smiling, as they crossed out into the 
avenue; “but, perhaps, when you get into the way of it, 
you’ll find it quite amusing. Really, it’s quite a life by 
itself, and people say it’s more like the foreign way of liv- 
ing. I’ll take you first to what our little slavey, as George 
calls our one servant, speaks of as the delicate man's. 
Please observe his proportions, and see how well the title 
fits.” 


XXIV. 


February — , 189 — . 

“My Dear Dick: 

“This has been such an absorbing and really exciting 
day I couldn’t write a line until this moment, when, with 
all my family sound asleep, I am sitting in our sky parlor 
alone by the fire for a chat with you and Mrs. Mackenzie, 
to whom you must show the letter at once. The house is 
quaint, and to my mind delightful, and our host and hostess 
and the younger sister promise well ; indeed, I am only 
dreading lest we have to search for another abiding place. 
First for Mrs. Mackenzie’s old friends. Miss Kate is like 
some quaint little character out of an old-fashioned story 
book, but I fancy she has more that is practical and modern 
about her than shows at first sight. Linda, the younger 
sister, is simply adorable; a perfect picture, although not 
regularly beautiful. She dresses in purely artistic style, 
wears her hair in a great loose, soft coil, high on her head, 
with funny little silver pins stuck in it, which she says her 
brother found in an old bric-a-brac store and likes to see 
her wear. She has a lovely voice, and would like to sing 
in public but for her brother’s very definite disapproval. 
Mr. Carrington puzzles me. He has a sort of brusquerie 
about him which does not fit in with the expression of his 
face, and I fancy he has had a hard fight with many things 
in life. His studio is a large room on the ground floor, 
full of all sorts of delightful things I’d like to rummage 
among if I dared, and he has been kind enough to look 
over my sketches and say they promise well, but I need 

159 


160 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


technique. A friend of his named Baldwin, who is what 
he calls a “black-and-white man,” is coming up to-morrow 
to talk things over w r ith me and give me some advice. 
Poor Aunt Ellen ! She is reduced to a state which I try 
to laugh her out of by calling her Airs. Gummidge , and 
when I described who and what that personage in “David 
Copperfield” was, instead of offending it quite amused her. 
But she really is to be pitied, and Dick, my dear, between 
ourselves, the spirits of your humble servant are anything 
but the best. Poor Uncle Neil! Well, of course we 
know what he intended doing. Do write me how matters 
stand at the Hill House. Horrible pictures rise to my 
mind of that girl tearing about and disarranging all the 
oldtime grace and sweetness of the place. Can Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie do nothing, I w 7 onder, to keep her from downright 
vandalism? I must stop now. I have just been looking 
out of my window, and I wish you could see the picture 
the city below makes on this clear starlight night. The 
tramp of human feet now and then, a shrill cry from some- 
one, the movement of the cars near by, all these sounds 
seem mere incidents in a picture of perfect godlike calm. 
I have been recalling some of our old studies from the Hill 
House cupola and gazing at our old friend the Great Bear, 
where he rests w r ith every point a lambent silvery light; 
and perhaps, if you are unwise enough to be awake at this 
hour, you may be consulting him yourself. Anyway, 
dear, dear Dick, I know you are thinking anxiously and 
tenderly of us all, and oh, what a treat it will be to see 
you! By that time it is to be hoped I may have learned 
how to make use of the little gas stove in our sky parlor, 
and can treat you to some “light housekeeping.” Polly 
remarked to-day she feared it would be very light indeed 
if left to her and me. She is to go in a day or two to the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


161 


nearest public school, and although the novelty pleases her 
she shrinks from all that it will bring about. A young 
friend of Linda Carrington’s is to call for us and introduce 
us to the principal at her school in this neighborhood. 
Poor little Pollikins! I’m afraid her “glittering generali- 
ties” in the way of book learning won’t do her much good 
in the cold light of a public school examination. Still, it 
won’t hurt her to learn where she stands among other girls 
of her age, as Mrs. Mackenzie said, and she has been wonder- 
fully sweet and gentle of late and taken a great liking to 
Linda Carrington. There is a little park opposite us which 
Polly calls measly, it has such a forlorn, neglected air, and 
yet it is by no means lacking in the picturesque, and not 
far away is a very quiet, comfortable-looking church 
which I mean to know more about on Sunday. Altogether, 
if not aristocratic, the neighborhood certainly has its 
attractions. How I wish I knew what you were doing 
at this moment. 1 hope you are plunged in loneliness. 
Don’t dare say so if you are not. Good-by, dear Dick. 
Think of us all, particularly your homesick 

“ Jean.” 


11 


XXV. 


The clock in the Hill House drawing room had just 
pealed forth the hour of noon in its soft silvery note, 
and one occupant of the room laid her book aside, yawned 
unreservedly, and stood up rustling her skirts as she did 
so in a way which caused her companion to look up with 
a “Well, my dear?” uttered half-inquiringly, half in 
reproof. 

“How many wells make a river?” demanded Sarah of 
her companion, a small, negative-looking woman of forty- 
two or three, with an unmistakable air of having long been 
in servitude to others about her, and yet something deli- 
cately refined and very agreeable in her pale, quiet face, 
hazel eyes, soft brown hair, and costume of dark brown 
serge. 

“I declare,” continued Miss Dalton, going over to the 
window, where she beat a tattoo on the pane, observing as 
she did so the gleam and sparkle of her new rings; “I’m 
beginning to get tired of so much elegance. I don’t see 
where the fun comes in, not exactly. It’s all very well,” 
she continued, “for you and Mrs. Mackenzie, Mrs. Holmes, 
to talk about toning me down, and refinement and polish, 
and all that; but I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a little 
fun as well. See here,” she added, turning around upon 
her companion, with a sudden light in her eyes, “I’ll tell 
you what we’ll do. We’ll have out the carriage and drive 
over to Xautuck. I’ve meant to do some shopping there 
some day soon. I’d like to see how they’d all act.” 

Mrs. Holmes might groan inwardly, but even in her two 
102 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


163 


months of residence she had learned that Sarah’s -whims or 
wishes were not to he disputed if the peace was to be kept, 
and accordingly rose to give the order for the carriage, 
while Sarah rushed off to her own room, Jean’s pink and 
gray bow r er, where she rang her bell violently for Mrs. 
Keyes. 

It was, as I said, two months since the newly found 
heiress to the Hill House had taken up her abode therein, 
and keen as was the girl’s pride in her position, she had 
been forced to admit to herself that the life of a fine lady, 
according to the rules laid down by her guardian, Dr. 
Fraser, Mrs. Mackenzie, and Mrs. Holmes, to say nothing 
of “her lawyer,” was anything but the triumphal progress 
she had anticipated. Disappointments, or perhaps I had 
better say impediments in her way, met her at every step. 
Innate pride made her anxious to do nothing which the 
servants, for instance, would criticise. She stood far 
more in awe of them than of Mrs. Holmes or even Mrs. 
Mackenzie, and ignorance made her hesitate to ask advice 
or to accept many suggestions from her companions, in 
consequence of which the girl had known some very 
mortifying experiences, while so far there had not even 
been the satisfaction of having anybody to — according 
to her phraseology — show off before. No callers had 
appeared, whether from lack of interest or a feeling that 
it was a house of mourning, Sarah could not tell; and the 
routine of her daily life, while it was conducted with 
every luxury, so far as externals went, had become to the 
girl insufferably dull. Dr. Fraser had certainly been very 
liberal, perhaps careless, in his allowing her to spend as 
freely as she liked, but as the girl frequently reflected, 
what difference did it make to have a change of costume 
for every da}' in the week, with no one to admire or even 


164 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


envy you, and the first novelty of dressing up simply for 
herself had begun to wear away. Instinctively Sarah was 
conscious of her own limitations. She might have good 
birth, but she had no traditions; and the thousand and one 
delicate touches which are the natural result of early train- 
ing, and, above all, of association, and which would enable 
a well-reared girl or woman to accept and dignify poverty, 
or use wealth with a generous ease, were wholly wanting 
in poor Sarah Dalton, leaving her embarrassed at every 
turn, dreading a mistake, and yet in her ignorance scorn- 
ing to ask or accept Mrs. Holmes’ delicately proffered 
advice. She was perfectly well aware that the kitchen 
cabinet regarded her as an upstart, and instead of trying 
to conciliate them by gentleness of demeanor, she had 
assumed an air of command which secret^ infuriated them 
all. The only one whom she found subservient had been 
Mrs. Keyes, complete amiability being that good woman’s 
leading trait; and accordingly Sarah had elected her to the 
post of confidential maid. 

Mrs. Mackenzie forced herself now and again to visit 
the girl, but she had not found her what she expected 
after Sarah took up the reins of government for herself. 
Conscious perhaps that Mrs. Mackenzie’s near and dear 
interests were with the absent members of the famity, 
Sarah had taken refuge in a half-defiant, half-condescend- 
ing attitude, which Mrs. Mackenzie would not attempt to 
change, and with Sandy alone was Sarah, to her own way 
of thinking, a complete success. 

He was still in the same law office in Albany, but he paid 
frequent visits to Thornton, where Sarah delighted in play- 
ing the grand lady before him. But as he was always 
treated as a highly honored guest, he had no objection to 
this display of her pride and power; rather encouraged it 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


165 


in view of a day when he intended to make his own wishes 
known. 

For some days past Sarah had been planning a tour of 
Nautuck, which should include shopping in the various 
stores, and possibly a condescending visit to the Malones, 
who, as she well knew, must not be kept too long from 
some share in her prosperity. She had signed a liberal 
check by Sandy’s advice for her aunt, but she was well 
aware it was only the beginning of what she might have 
to do, and it occurred to the girl that just now a friendly 
call would be the best way to keep the Malones from any 
open demands. 

“ What you going to wear?” inquired Mrs. Keyes, while 
Sarah pulled open and shut various bureau drawers, turn- 
ing things over with a careless hand. 

“The best I’ve got,” returned Sarah, “for I’m going 
shopping in Nautuck, and they’re people I’d like to show 
my best foot foremost to. There, I guess that black silk 
and crepe is good enough,” she continued loftily, as Mrs. 
Keyes took down a rich lustreless mourning silk, heavily 
trimmed with crepe, which was the best gown in the girl’s 
new collection; “and it’s cold enough to-day for my seal- 
skin,” she continued, “and I guess I’ll put on that jet and 
diamond set.” 

There was yet a charm about all her finery, but Sarah, as 
she regarded herself in the long cheval glass which had so 
often reflected Jean Garnier’s slender form and high-bred 
face, was not entirely satisfied. Was it that her cheeks 
looked too red, or the dress too heavy? Her really pretty 
face was becomingly shaded by a broad-brimmed black 
felt hat, rich with ostrich plumes, and the costume, but for 
the jewels, was in perfect taste ; yet somehow, as the girl 
was dimly aware, there was a lack which she could not 


166 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


tell Low to supply. The garments fitted her perfectly, yet 
they did not look as though they belonged to her, and her 
keen wit made her uncomfortably conscious of the fact. 

“ Aint that carriage ready yet?” she said sharply, turn- 
ing away from the mirror with immense satisfaction in the 
prospect ahead of her, and beginning to draw on a pair of 
long black suede gloves. “Here, where’s all my new 
bangles?” she added, searching an upper drawer for them. 
“You go see if Mrs. Holmes is ready,” she rattled on; 
and as Mrs. Keyes departed, Sarah glanced about to see if 
by chance she had neglected any means of further adorn- 
ment. She had her new silver purse by a chain over one 
wrist, and five crisp twenty-dollar bills within it, and her 
Russia leather account or memorandum book in her hand, 
and she intended to buy the most expensive dress in 
Eastman’s store by way of a beginning. 

Mrs. Holmes was quite ready and waiting in the hall 
below when Sarah rustled down the great staircase, and a 
moment later they were seated in the family carriage and 
bowling rapidly along the avenue, thence out into the 
Thornton turnpike. 

The intercourse between Sarah and her “lady com- 
panion,” as she called her, was at no time to be exactly 
called conversation, since it consisted either in a mono- 
logue on Sarah’s part or a series of questions and answers 
on various subjects of general information in which Miss 
Dalton discovered herself ignorant; but now Sarah had a 
Congenial topic and launched forth with a history of the 
different people in Nautuck, whom she wanted to see stare. 

“They aint got over wondering yet,” began Sarah, 
whereupon Mrs. Holmes, mindful of her chief duty, ven- 
tured to repeat the phrase : “ They have not ceased wonder- 
ing , my dear.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


167 


“That’s so,” said Sarah good-humoredly. She was well 
aware such corrections were part of Mrs. Holmes’ engage- 
ment, and so, as she expressed it, “she bore no ill will”; 
but in fact her deficient education troubled Miss Dalton 
very slightly. So far she had not been compelled to meet 
strangers who would put her ignorance to shame. Mrs. 
Holmes she regarded as hired to improve her, consequently 
she could not expect to find nothing to do. The servants 
she ignored, so far as possible, unless to issue peremptory 
orders, and insist upon their prompt fulfillment, and there 
was little occasion for using her pen except during one 
penitential hour a day when Mrs. Holmes insisted upon 
her writing a copy, and Sarah yielded because she was 
well aware that for business reasons, if for no other, pen- 
manship was necessary. 

It was for a restless desire for the adulation which so 
far she had not received that Sarah determined upon this 
shopping expedition, and as the carriage rolled along the 
main street of Nautuck the girl was divided between a 
desire to see and be seen, and the fear that if she looked 
out of the window too freely her dignity would suffer. 
They stopped at last before Eastman’s large store, and 
Sarah descended from the carriage with a languid air, not 
so much as looking back at her companion, who followed 
half amused, half irritated by the girl’s treatment of her. 
But of course, the little widow reflected, however annoy- 
ing it is, one can forgive ignorance anything, and it was 
Sarah’s way of being a fine lady. 

Eastman’s was a large store for the place, having vari- 
ous departments, and representing the fashion and richer 
class of trade in that section of the country, and needless 
to say, not a clerk in the establishment but knew all of 
Sarah Dalton’s history, embellishing the tale according to 


1G8 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


his or her fancy, so that she was really received as a pub- 
lic personage, and something in'' the way of a curiosity, 
while those who had been favored with her acquaintance 
when she was only Sarah Malone made haste to greet her 
warmly. It was no part, however, of Miss Dalton’s plan 
to treat these former friends as though she still resided in 
Dawson’s Block, yet of course she could not quite turn 
the cold shoulder up’on them, but when Katie Martin, 
one of the principal salesladies, began an animated con- 
versation Sarah contrived to say that she must hurry up, 
as she had a great deal to do and several purchases to 
make. 

“And, if you please,” she said, with an admirable imi- 
tation of indifference, “whatever you show me I want 
nothing but the best” whereupon Mr. Eastman himself 
volunteered to wait upon her, and a scene followed which 
amused Mrs. Holmes intensely even while it aggravated 
her. Sarah selected everything with the air of one to 
whom money is a merely necessary commodity and a bur- 
den, but her purchases were of the most random character. 
Now and again she would, when really perplexed, refer to 
Mrs. Holmes with a “Say, what do you think of that?” Or 
“Aint that about the right thing?” while at last Mrs. 
Holmes could only resort to monosyllables, her own deli- 
cate good taste refusing to enter in any way into the 
calculations or ideas of her charge. 

They were examining a stock of umbrellas, Sarah not 
exactly knowing whether so fine a lady as she had become 
ought to need one, since for rainy weather, of course, she 
had her carriage, when one of the salesladies inquired 
carelessly : 

“Is your aunt any better, Sarah?” 

Sarah started. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


169 


“Why,” she exclaimed, “that’s first I heard she was 
sick.” 

“ Why, yes,” said the girl, the fondness for such detail 
which afflicts the rural mind making her eager to give the 
bad news. “She was taken sick last week and is pretty 
bad.” 

Sarah’s cheek paled. She hardly knew whether there 
was any actual grief in the shock of this news or not; still 
something like a pang shot across her heart as she thought 
of her only known relation in suffering or trouble. She 
concluded her purchases hastily, ordered them sent at 
once to the Hill House, not forgetting to give her name 
and address in a very distinct voice, and then swept Mrs. 
Holmes away to the carriage. 

“I guess if aunt’s sick,” she observed hurriedly, “we 
may as well stop up there and see her. Say, you tell Mr. 
Knapp, won’t you? It’s 15 Dawson’s Block.” 

Not a word jjassed between them while the carriage 
went quickly over the streets of the town, turning down 
the well-remembered roadway which Sarah had never seen 
since that day — how long ago was it ? — that Mrs. Knapp 
had taken her out of bondage. Even in the short time 
which had elapsed the girl had absorbed enough of the 
external influences of her new life to feel a sickening sense 
of disgust when she found herself once more in the narrow, 
ill-kept street, and before the well-remembered little door- 
way. How was it she had not before realized what it was 
like ? A shiver passed through Sarah as she descended 
from the carriage, leaving Mrs. Holmes sitting within the 
equipage, an object of admiration for the entire neighbor- 
hood. 


XXVI. 


Mrs. Malone was seated in the one easy-chair her 
kitchen could boast, and as Sarah pushed open the door 
she turned sharply, every line of her face showing suffer- 
ing, both bodily and mental. The room was untidy, com- 
fortless, and dreary in the extreme, and while Sarah took 
it all in at a glance, what really dismayed her was the alter- 
ation in her aunt’s entire look and manner. 

“Sarah,” she said, with a queer sound in her throat, as 
though her tongue had long been silent, and putting her 
hands on the arms of her chair, she endeavored to rise to 
her feet. 

“Sit down, Aunt ’Tilda,” Sarah said quickly. This 
was worse than she had expected. “Why, you’ve been 
sick, I hear,” she went on, coming nearer to the poor 
woman, whose sunken eyes were lifted eagerly to her 
niece’s face. “Why didn’t you let me know?” said the 
girl jerkily. 

Mrs. Malone’s thin hand wandered to Sarah’s rich gown } 
and she stroked it with pleasure. 

“Why, Sarah!” she said, smiling, “I guess there aint 
anyone better off’n you now, he there? Well, well, to 
think of poor Phil’s girl having it all.” 

“Never mind me, aunt,” said Sarah sharply; “where’s 
Aggie, that she leaves you like this? And -who’s got 
Mi key?” 

“Miss Birds keeps him,” said Mrs. Malone anxiously, 
“and Aggie’s got work over to Cranston’s Mill. She’s 
only home nights.” 


170 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


171 


“And you are alone?” cried Sarah indignantly. A 
thought of the luxury she was revelling in over at the Hill 
House smote the girl’s heart, and, as usual, she acted on a 
sudden unconsidered impulse. 

“I guess this won’t last,” the girl exclaimed, her eyes 
flashing. She flung off her sealskin paletot and the beau- 
tiful felt hat, not heeding that they rolled off the untidy 
bed upon the floor. 

“Sarah,” whispered Mrs. Malone, “what jmu goin’ to 
do ? Look at your elegant clothes on the floor.” 

“Oh, bother!” retorted Sarah. Suddenly she remem- 
bered Mrs. Holmes sitting in state out in the carriage, and 
regardless of her out-of-door garments she flung herself 
from the room, running quickly down the path, all her 
little airs and graces forgotten. 

“Say, Mrs. Holmes,” said that lady’s pupil breathlessly, 
“my aunt’s feeling miserable, and she’s all alone, and I 
mean she shall go right straight back with us to the Hill 
House. The carriage is big enough for four, so I guess 
three can squeeze in.” 

And without waiting for any opinion from her com- 
panion, Sarah sped back again, explaining her intention to 
her bewildered but entirely docile aunt. 

“Sarah, honey,” said Mrs. Malone, “if I’m a-going up 
there with you I want to take my own little box — it’s 
got the few cents I’ve saved up and some bits of old things 
in it — I don’t want Aggie to get at it all — there it is,” as 
Sarah, searching about, had come upon an old rosewood box 
which she remembered since she was a child; “and my 
best shawl’s right there in the trunk,” she was going on 
when Sarah interrupted her with : 

“Oh, never you mind, Aunt ’Tilda! I want to get you 
away, and Mrs. Bird ’ll see everything’s took good care 


172 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


of. You shan’t need much for a new shawl , I guess,” said 
the girl, with a laugh. 

If she had come in upon her aunt strong and defiant how 
different would have been her tone. But the sight of her 
helpless, stricken, enfeebled, such a change from the last 
time, had turned everything in Sarah’s heart to her aunt’s 
favor, and she was now resolving “all that tribe,” as she 
called them collectively, at the Hill House, should see that 
no one belonging to her could be ill treated or put down. 
No — it would be part of her triumph to install her aunt, 
Mrs. Malone, in the best room the house could afford, and 
Dr. Fraser should be called in at once. 

These thoughts flew through Sarah’s mind and brain 
while she dressed her aunt with eager but nervous hands, 
and then, bidding her stay where she was for a moment, 
Sarah put on her sealskin and fine hat, and darted around 
to Mrs. Bird’s doorway. 

Little Alice, who was minding Mikey, set up a shrill cry 
of welcome, and the heir of the Malones laughed and crowed 
in sympathy, although not in the least recognizing the 
visitor. 

“O Sarah!" cried Alice, “aint you just grand!" 

The child hobbled to her feet and stood looking at her 
old friend in speechless admiration. 

Sarah’s spirits rose at once. She almost forgot her 
anxiety about Mrs. Malone in her pride over so dazzling 
Alice Bird. 

“Guess I am, Alice,” she said, with the old toss of her 
head, “and some of these days I’m a-goin’ to have you up 
to my house for a visit — see if I don’t. Now, look here, 
Alice, you be a good girl and mind Mikey for a while and 
I’ll pay you for it. I’m taking Aunt ’Tilda away till she 
gets a little better. See? And here” — Sarah extracted 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


173 


a five-dollar note from her little silver purse and put it 
down carefully under the clock on the chimney-piece — 
“when your mother comes in,” she went on, “you just tell 
her Sarah Malone — no, I mean Dalton; don’t you forget 
that’s my name now — took her aunt away in a great hurry, 
’cause she was so sick. You ask your mother just to look 
after things and let Aggie know when she comes home. 
There, now. Don’t you be a little gump and cry. I aint 
dead, am 1? and I’m goin’ to give you all the good time 
you want bime by,” said the excited Sarah, stooping to 
kiss her little friend, who was crying plaintively. “Shut 
up now, Alice,” she went on; “s’pose I tune up and 
cry too.” 

And while Alice tried to laugh at such an idea Sarah 
made good her escape, returning to find Mrs. Malone 
standing in the middle of the floor very pale and tremulous, 
but evidently eager to be away. 

Sarah gave Mrs. Holmes no chance for enquiry or remon- 
strance, if indeed the little lady had thought of offering 
either, for, on reaching the carriage, she said curtly: 

“Here, Mrs. Holmes, this is my Aunt ’Tilda, and she’s 
too sick to leave alone, so I’m takin’ her right home with 
me.” 

There was a little difficulty in getting Mrs. Malone 
safely into one corner of the luxurious carriage, as she 
seemed scarcely to understand what was expected of her, 
but once it was accomplished Sarah turned to Mr. Knapp, 
directing him to go back to Eastman’s. 

“For,” reflected the girl, “I aint goin’ to have those 
servants making any fun of my aunt’s clothes. I guess 
they’ll see she's as much of a lady as I am, any day !” 

And to place the ineradicable hall-mark of gentility 
upon Mrs. Malone, Sarah once more dazzled Eastman’s 


174 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


with her presence and custom, explaining to her particular 
friends there that she was taking Mrs. Malone up in such 
a hurry to the Hill House that there wasn’t time to pack 
a trunk. 

“I don’t care what I pay,” she went on, “if you’ll send 
all the things right over before night. I aint got room 
in my carriage.” 

If she had started out bent on relieving the tedium of 
her life of solitary grandeur Sarah Dalton’s object certainly 
was attained, for what could have been more unexpected 
than that she should return with Mrs. Malone as a guest, 
and so ill that it was necessary to get her at once into bed 
and send for Dr. Fraser ? 

Mrs. Holmes proved all that was kind and efficient in 
the emergency, and Sarah was really thankful for her assist- 
ance and quiet clear-headedness. The large quiet room 
which had been occupied by old Miss Dyker was quickly 
warmed and made ready for the guest, who seemed only 
anxious to be in bed and in quiet. It did not seem as 
though she was suffering much actual pain, yet there was 
a queer hunted look about her eyes, a drawn, pitiful 
expression about her whole face, which touched Mrs. 
Holmes’ heart inexpressibly, and roused Sarah to the kind 
of sharpness of tone and manner which was her way of 
concealing what she really felt. 

“So that’s your aunt, is it. Miss Sarah V” said the sym- 
pathetic Mrs. Keyes, with an ominous shake of her head, 
“and how nice it is to think as you’ve brought the poor 
dear lady to die comfortable up here.” 

Sarah wheeled about suddenly, a quick light in her eyes. 

“Don’t you talk about dying ” she exclaimed, “just yet. 
I mean my aunt shall have the very best money can give 
her, and I guess she won’t die if I can help it.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


175 


But Mrs. Keyes was not silenced. Sarah’s tone shocked 
her. 

“You’ll find that aint all in your hands, my dear,” she 
said solemnly. 

As Mrs. Keyes left the room Sarah went slowly up to 
her aunt’s bedside and gazed for an instant in silence at 
the worn face and closed eyelids. Something — she knew 
not quite what — told the girl that Mrs. Malone’s sickness 
had a foundation deeper than a mere physical cause. It 
could not be any pecuniary trouble, since she had seen 
that the family in Dawson’s Block were well enough cared 
for. What, then, could it be? Sarah rested one of her 
young hands on the woman’s tired-looking brow, and bend- 
ing down, said quietly: 

“Aunt ’Tilda, the doctor’s coming to see you in a few 
minutes, and I guess if I was you I wouldn’t talk to him 
too much. He aint one of that kind. If you’ve got any- 
thing on your mind,” she went on, “that’s troubling 
you, why, you can just tell it to me and I’ll fix it all 
straight. You know,” she continued, “the doctor is my 
guardian.” 

“Where’s that young lawyer man?” inquired Mrs. 
Malone, looking up at her niece with an anxious frown. 

“Who — Sandy Mackenzie?” she inquired. “Oh, he’s 
over in Albany. He comes here every little while. Why, 
what’s that to you?” she went on. 

“Nothing much,” said Mrs. Malone slowly, “only,” she 
added, “if anything was a-goin’ to happen to me there’s a 
little business matter of my own as I wanted seen to— 
something to do with my burying,” she went on hastily, 
“and I guess he’d do it about as cheap as anybody.” 

“Now just see here!” said Sarah, speaking with all her 
usual energy, “if you don’t stop that talk about dying and 


176 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


getting buried I’ll just leave you to the servants and won’t 
come near you again.” 

“O Sarah/” said her aunt plaintively, and catching 
her dress with one nervous hand, “don't you take on like 
that, I didn’t mean anything; only it’s so foolish for people 
not to look things straight in the face, and you know I 
have a few dollars I want to see someone gets that will 
take care of my little Mikey.” 

“You leave Mikey to me,” said Sarah, smiling; “I guess 
he won’t want for much while I’m alive.” 

The sick woman’s eyes closed wearily again, and Sarah, 
as she stood over her, could not rid herself of a feeling 
that her aunt was holding something back. Something 
there surely was working on her mind, and how was she 
to break the silence? An instinctive dread of its being 
some painful disclosure, perhaps against her own inter- 
ests, made her dread to let Dr. Fraser share her suspicions, 
and her principal fear was lest Mrs. Mackenzie should 
bring the search-light of her presence into the room. No, 
Sarah decided in that moment, until her aunt was stronger, 
she would see that only those in whom she had perfect 
trust were about her. Mrs. Holmes, she reflected, would 
be of the greatest service, since there could be no danger 
of her discussing family matters w r ith the sick woman, or 
of Mrs. Malone’s talking unguardedly to her. 

It was a relief to hear the doctor’s quick step upon the 
stairs, and Sarah felt much of her nervousness disappear 
on sight of his pleasant, inspiring countenance. 

He asked very few questions, but commended Sarah’s 
action in bringing her aunt back with her. 

“She is more run down from nervous exhaustion than 
anything else,” said the doctor. “ But you have prescribed 
just the proper remedy. Perfect rest, good care, and a 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. HI 

nourishing diet' — I can hardly add to that prescription, for 
she doesn’t need much medicine.” 

Sarah, to use her own expression, made “ short work” 
of the servants, who naturally were curious about the 
unexpected guest, and Mrs. Keyes, who was the bearer of 
all news from her mistress to the kitchen, satisfied them 
by saying it was a “very queer old aunt of Miss Dalton’s 
who had heaps and heaps of money and wanted to be with 
her niece when she was dyin’.” 

Dr. Fraser, on leaving the Hill House, knocked at Mrs. 
Mackenzie’s door to inform her of what had taken place. 

“Then there is some hope of the girl,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Mackenzie. “I never liked her keeping quite aloof from 
her own kith and kin. What, I wonder, will Sandy say to 
this?” she added. “ He had a great horror of Mrs. Malone’s 
being with Sarah.” 

“My dear friend,” said the doctor, “let me tell you one 
thing: whatever Miss Sarah Dalton makes up her mind 
to do, that will be done if she can compass it, no matter 
what forty Sandy s or fifty guardians chose to say to the 
contrary. What a fine creature,” he added, “the girl 
might have been with early training! As it is, we can 
onty make the best of a bad business. By the way, how 
goes the little family in New York — our exiles?” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s look of preoccupation was dispelled. 

“Dick sent me on a delightful letter from Jean,” she 
answered. “In a little while I mean to run down and see 
them. I sent them to the right place when 1 remembered 
Kate Carrington and her brother. Polly is to go to a 
public school, and Jean is beginning to draw in Carring- 
ton’s studio. Dick means to run over and have a look at 
them next week.” 

“Ah, me — too bad, too bad! ” sighed the doctor. “Still 
12 


178 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


the girls are young and healthy — but poor Ellen ! Can she 
ever feel content, 1 wonder, out of her old moorings?” 

“Perhaps not; never mind — things might have been 
infinitely worse,” said Mrs. Mackenzie cheerfully. “Jean 
is a — trump!” she added. 

“Ah, Jean, of course,” said the old doctor, “is what 
Lois Dyker’s daughter ought to be !” 

And as he went away down the sunshiny road to his * 
own little dwelling Dr. Fraser glanced back once at the 
turrets of the Hill House, piercing the clear, springlike 
morning, and remembered a day when the very sight of the 
old place had thrilled his young veins, because he knew it 
was near the season for Lois to have her Easter holidays 
at home — Lois with her dainty little ways, her soft dark 
eyes, and the smile that now and then flashed across her 
daughter’s sweet young face, and made the old man’s heart 
beat with mixed pain and pleasure. 

“ Well, well, well!” the doctor kept on saying to himself 
as he opened his surgery door. “Queer changes, sure 
enough. I wonder how many more Margaret Mackenzie 
and I are destined to see. We stand aside like a Greek 
chorus, but are in the plot all the time.” 


XXVII. 


“Now, chen, Pollikins, don’t look as if you were going 
to your own funeral!” 

Polly laughed, but not very pleasantly, and Jean went 
on : 

“This girl you are going with seems very nice and 
bright, and I’m sure she’ll look after you the first day all 
she can ” 

“It isn’t that,” said Polly, more inclined to weep than 
anything else. “But from what she told me last night 
I’m afraid I’ll be in a very low class.” 

“Then work with a will,” said Jean, “and you’ll get 
ahead quickly even over the rudiments just because you 
are older and wiser than the girls you will be with.” 

Polly dried her eyes with a long sigh, half of misery, 
half resolution to be brave, prepared to face what was 
really the most trying ordeal of her life; for Mary David- 
son, Linda’s friend, was waiting downstairs to take her 
to the public school which she attended. 

Mary was in the highest grade and aiming at a college 
course to fit herself as a teacher, but well did Polly know, 
from what Linda had been able to tell her, that the place 
to which she would be assigned would be among the 
youngest pupils, since, advanced as she might be in lan- 
guages, and what one may call general information, she 
was woefully lacking in a knowledge of the actual rudi- 
ments. 

Only the day before she and Jean had hidden them- 
selves upstairs, while with a slate and pencil they had 

179 


180 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


endeavored to go through certain examples in arithmetic, 
and the result had been hopeless confusion, Jean giving 
up all effort at assistance when it came to proving the sum. 
It might have been that this demonstration of their own 
ignorance spurred Jean on to a feeling that Polly must, as 
soon as possible, get the groundwork of her future estab- 
lished. It was all very well, reflected Jean, to have your 
own little personal methods of adding up a column of 
figures which would bring out the sum total satisfactorily 
in the end, but it was quite another thing to do that of 
bookkeeping as a business matter, and under the cold glare, 
perhaps, of an employer’s eye, who would never know why 
you reduced everything to tens in the first place and then 
added them together with little marginal notes of the units 
which might be left over! Polly might, as she knew, have 
to support herself by teaching, and this exceedingly airy 
manner of doing sums would not be very useful to her pupils. 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Polly,” had been Jean’s ulti- 
matum, “you may consider yourself fortunate in being 
obliged to go light into a public school. You’ll be thank- 
ful for it all your life long. You see, when I w ? as study- 
ing, I was allowed to learn anything and everything, just 
whatever took my fancy; and now, you see, no doubt Mary 
Davidson could make me blush in ten minutes for my own 
ignorance.” 

Polly, to whom Jean was the ideal of all that was digni- 
fied and gentle in young ladyhood, had been greatly 
encouraged by this, and the first sight of Mary Davidson’s 
pleasant, good-tempered face cheered her still further, 
although she still had a feeling that she was about to sac- 
rifice her dignity in some mysterious manner by present- 
ing herself at a public school with only her family name to 
support her through the examination. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


181 


“This way,” said Mary as they turned up Third 
Avenue; “it’s not a very long walk, and I’ll take you to 
the playground first. If we are in time you will find most 
of the girls there amusing themselves until the bell rings.” 

Polly nodded her head and made her mind up that Jean 
should find out on her return that she had conducted her- 
self in every way “like a Dyker,” which was always Jean’s 
summing up of any argument in regard to good behavior. 

After all, there was a dash of novelty in the situation 
which caught Polly’s fancy, and Mary Davidson seemed 
such a universal favorite that her introduction of the new 
girl proved quite a card in Polly’s favor, and in a few 
moments youth had asserted itself. By that common bond 
which unites all young people of every class and condi- 
tion, Polly speedily found herself one of an eager, talka- 
tive group, and when the bell rang and the classes formed 
for chapel exercises, although Mary Davidson was obliged 
to leave her, she found herself in very congenial company. 
At the top of the staircase a bright, cheery-faced young 
lady, who she learned was Miss Nichols, met her and 
explained that she would sit at one side until the reading 
and prayers were ended. Polly had by this time become 
thoroughly interested in all that was going on, and so, 
while the principal of the school read aloud and a sweet 
old-fashioned hymn was sung, she sat quietly in the place 
assigned her, wondering what would come next, and not 
quite so ashamed of her ignorance as she had been. 

But the blow to her pride fell later, swiftly and surely, 
in the very brief examination to which she was subjected. 
It was found, tall sixteen-year-old girl as she was, that her 
place in the ranks of Uncle Sam’s scholars was a very hum- 
ble one. Every advantage of the highest form of educa- 
tion was open to her, but it mattered nothing that she was 


182 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Polly Dyker, with the bluest of blood in her veins, the 
traditions of a long line at her back, and the feeling of one 
born in the purple in every action and sentiment. She 
was only a little American girl among hundreds of others, 
and when, school over, Polly waited for her new friend 
to say good-by and retrace her steps, the wisest lesson 
years could have taught her had been learned. 

But the delicacy of her bringing up told in the way in 
which she took this second defeat in life. She offered not 
the slightest objection or remonstrance to anything said or 
done, and was only anxious to get back to the shelter of 
Jean’s loving sympathy and encouragement. 

“I hope you’ll come to sec me, Mary,” she said to her 
new friend. “I’ll find my way back easily enough now, 
thank you, and I’d be ever so much obliged if you will look 
out for me in the playground to-morrow morning.” 

Mary readily promised, and Polly started on her first 
walk alone in the great city, feeling as though she had 
really began life on her own account. Brief as her experi- 
ence had been, it already seemed to have put the luxurious 
ease of the Ilill House far away from her, and in her one 
day’s contact with the crowd of other girls she had begun 
to learn the best lesson that life could teach her: her 
own unimportance to the world at large unless she made 
herself worthy of a place among her fellow -beings. 


XXVIII. 


A few days sufficed to so regulate matters in the little 
household in Benton Square that Jean found no difficulty 
in setting her fire going in the sky parlor, making coffee 
for her family, and starting Polly away to school. But 
all the time there was the undercurrent of anxiety as to 
the future. It would be impossible, as she knew, for them 
to continue long in this desultory fashion. She was anx- 
ious that when Dick came on a visit he should find them, 
so far as possible, in working order, and accordingly, one 
afternoon about a week later than the day which chronicled 
Polly’s first school attempt, she ventured down to the 
studio with some sketches of her own, which she had made 
the day before. 

Carrington was alone, whistling gayly over his work, 
and he turned a very cheerful countenance to her as she 
entered. 

“Now, let me tell you beforehand,” said Jean, holding 
her sketch-book behind her back, “I shall be satisfied if 
you’ll only tell me there’s something worth while in this. 
Please don’t scream out in horror, for I’m well aware they 
are very bad.” 

She handed him the book and walked deliberately over to 
the piano, before which, while he inspected it, she sat down, 
playing a few idle chords in order to distract her own 
attention. 

Carrington turned leaf after leaf, and then at last he 
looked at her with a quizzical smile. 

“Miss Gamier,” he said, leaning up against the wall 

183 


184 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


near the piano, and looking down upon her with a very 
gentle, kindly expression, “as I told you, I want Baldwin’s 
opinion, and he will be here to-night. Judging by what I 
see here, you ought to be able to do something — but not 
very much — in the line of illustrating. If you take my 
advice you will never aim at anything beyond producing a 
pleasing effect, and I think if, as you said the other day, 
your object is only to make money, you may at least be 
able to pay for your own bread and butter. But remem- 
ber this can only be done by hard work and putting any 
ambitious flights out of your mind.” 

“Then I am entirely satisfied,” said Jean gravely, “and 
next, I want to know how I can learn something about 
technique.” 

“Why, for the matter of that,” said Carrington care- 
lessly, “you can do it right here in my studio as w T ell as 
anywhere else, if you will allow me the pleasure of helping 
you a little. All you need is to draw from life, not from 
the flat, as we call it. You will never learn anything by 
merely copying.” 

He picked up an empty inkstand from the mantle-piece, 
and laid it on a surface of white paper, saying as he did so: 

“That is as good a study as I could give you. It’s no 
consequence what the object you draw from is so long as 
you have an actual model and draw the thing precisely as 
you see it. That gives life and reality to your work. Of 
course I don’t mean it would make a pretty or salable 
picture, but it would be thoroughly sincere.” 

“I knov r ,” exclaimed Jean ; “I remember once in travel- 
ling making a study of the buttons on a lady’s dress oppo- 
site me, and I really learned something worth while in 
doing so.” 

“That’s it!” exclaimed Carrington, “and for just the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


185 


same reason you must draw from casts before you attempt 
anything good in figures. However,” he continued, 
laughing, “I don’t want to overwhelm you in the start. 
This evening Baldwin can give you excellent advice, 
and, by the way,” he added, “in that very connection I re- 
member my sister had something to say to you.” 

He left the room, and in the few moments which elapsed 
before his return with Miss Kate Jean was conscious of a 
decided elevation in her spirits. He had not wholly dis- 
couraged her. Moreover, there was something peculiarly 
sympathetic in the way in which he expressed his interest 
in her undertaking. It was like the touch of a friendly 
hand when we have long been among strangers, and Jean 
reflected that she ought to do her very best to prove 
worthy of such unlooked-for kindness. It would please 
Dick, she was quite certain — Dick, who might arrive here 
now at any moment, and who would certainly not inter- 
fere with her plans for making money, since they did not 
separate her from the other members of her little family. 

Miss Kate very soon appeared, following her brother 
into the studio with her most cheerful and hopeful expres- 
sion. 

“I’m sure, my dear Miss Gamier,” she began at once, 
“you won’t object to a very quiet little evening with just 
Mr. Baldwin and one other friend. You know,” she went 
on, “that in our kind of life we are quite unconventional, 
and even if they make a little fun and music it won’t dis- 
tress you, will it?” 

Jean could only answer that she was quite sure it would 
be all suited to her own taste, whereupon Miss Kate 
turned to her brother, inquiring whether he thought Mr. 
Baldwin would like to make a Welsh rarebit. 

“For if so,” she said, “1 must get out the chafing-dish.” 


186 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“You see,” laughed Carrington to Jean, “ Baldwin’s chief 
talent lies in the direction of a rarebit, and whenever he 
comes iii we have ane. Our evening,” be added, “will be 
a mingling of music, art, and gastronomy, and this old 
girl” — laying his hand affectionately on Miss Kate’s 
shoulder — “is the best little woman in the world, for she 
never interferes with our own way of doing things, even 
though I don’t doubt she often has to groan in spirit. 
The best wife in the world was spoiled for some man when 
she sacrificed herself to looking out for Linda and me.” 

Miss Kate blushed with pleasure, but when she and Jean 
left the room, the latter to return to her aunt upstairs, Miss 
Kate said almost wistfully: 

“My dear, if I were to work for a lifetime, I never should 
feel that I did half enough for George. Some of these 
days I may tell you just a little of what he has been to 
me. I am so glad,” she continued, “that he seems to have 
taken a liking to you, for he is very odd about things of 
that sort. His friends fairly adore him, but he will never 
make or choose a friend for any worldly motive. Some 
day,” she concluded, smiling, “I’ll tell you all about it.” 


XXIX. 


“ Lord Bateman was— a noble lord — 

A noble lord was lie of high degree, 

And he deter— min — ed — to go abroad, 

To go — strange coun — un — un — tries — for to see. 

He sail — ed east — he sail — ed west, 

Until he ca — a — liame — to proud Tur kee ” 

“Mr. Baldwin! will you — can you forget Lord Bate- 
man for one moment?” 

Linda was the speaker, and, as may well be imagined, 
Mr. Baldwin’s pathetic ditty came to a sudden stand-still 
— fortunately, indeed, since he and Linda were supposed 
to be getting the silver chafing-dish in order for the 
impromptu supper on that, to Jean at least, eventful 
evening. 

The studio had been so far rearranged for the evening 
that a space in the centre of the large room was cleared, 
the easels were turned face wallward, and a small tripod 
stove occupied a dignified position, above which Linda’s 
face was bent anxiously, while Baldwin manoeuvred dex- 
terously, Miss Kate hovered near by to hand out the 
necessary ingredients, and Jean and Polly looked on keenly 
amused and interested. 

Miss Dyker was in a chair of state, undecided as to 
whether the proceedings were quite befitting ladies and 
gentlemen, yet something so entirely free from vulgarity 
was there in the unconventionality of everything said and 
done that the old lady instinctively felt it was all harm- 
less amusement. Carrington also looked on, but offering 
superfluous remarks and advice from time to time in which 

187 


188 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


he refused to be silenced, and during a moment when the 
“chefs” were completely absorbed he half whispered to 
Jean: “You see the honest, downright sort of fellow Bald- 
win is. You may be sure he will tell you the exact truth 
about your work.” 

Jean nodded. 

“I like him,” she said quietly. “There is a look of 
decision about his mouth and eyes which pleases me.” 
She glanced at the broad-shouldered, not very tall young 
fellow, whose dark face was, as she had suggested, manly in 
its strength and indication of fine feeling. He had the 
look of one who had made a fight for some of the comforts 
of life, not its refining influences — these he had evidently 
known always; and there was perceptiveness strongly 
developed in brow and eyes. In point of fact, Baldwin’s 
opinions were often considered more valuable than his 
actual work. 

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” announced the guest sud- 
denly, “behold, the banquet may proceed. Linda, my 
angel, hast thou the table laid with covers for the all-hun- 
gered ?” 

“I hast,” said Linda, with a wave of the fork in her 
hand, and drawing aside the folding doors leading into 
the parlor, she displayed a daintily spread supper-table, 
decorated with a few choice flowers, and laid out with Miss 
Kate’s best silver and china. Added to the rarebit were 
a salad, and some cold fowl, and a good-sized home-made 
pie. 

“Act II,” exclaimed Baldwin. “Now, ladies and gen- 
tleman, will you be seated? since the proof of a rarebit is 
in eating it the moment it leaves the fire. What! ho! 
there, warder!” 

“You do,” said Carrington, “but in. moderation, for 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


189 


remember that we are ruled by a lady who regulates those 
matters after a fashion of her own, but which results in 
the greatest good for the greatest number.” 

Even Miss Dyker was roused by the simple fun which 
pervaded the little party, and when just before they were 
sitting down the door-bell pealed, and two friends of Car- 
rington’s were welcomed — brothers in art, who readily 
took in the situation — the old lady seemed really interested 
by the fact that, as she whispered to Jean, “it was almost 
like a party.” The “shop” talk which went on at once 
and with eager interest fixed Jean’s attention from the 
start. Criticisms on this and that piece of work were 
rapidly and graphically exchanged, and presently Car- 
rington, with his peculiarly pleasant smile, said, turning 
to Jean : 

“Miss Gamier is entering our ranks, Baldwin, and, by 
the w r ay, my chief anxiety to have you here this evening 
was that you might give her some advice about black-and- 
white work.” 

They had moved back into the studio; Linda and the 
little maid of all work were busy transforming the parlor 
into its original purpose again, and Jean found herself on 
a low sofa by Baldwin, who had her sketch-book in his 
hands. 

lie looked — -peered down — held the pages up — nodded 
his head or shook it occasionally, but for a few moments 
said nothing. Then he turned to her suddenly, observing: 

“You say you’ve never studied under a master?” 

“No — that is, at one time 1 took drawing lessons, but 
they amounted to nothing. I merely copied pretty land- 
scapes and flowers. This” — touching the book — “I have 
done at random — just as the objects struck me as worth 
putting down.” 


190 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“So much the better. Bad as some of the drawing is, 
it at least shows decided ability and what w T e call chic — 
you just escape being an excellent caricaturist.” 

“I am glad of that,” said Jean, with a curl of her lip. 
“I despise extravagance of the kind in art.” 

“It’s not so bad if it doesn’t go too far,” said Baldwin. 
“But anyway you can at least turn your ability of that 
kind to good use in portraying character. You would like, 
I believe, to illustrate?” 

Jean, hanging on every word he uttered, nodded her 
head. 

“Well, see here — now suppose you just begin work in a 
slapdash fashion, here in Carrington’s studio. Make a 
few sketches, compose your little picture, then let me 
show them to a firm I know down-town. Meanwhile grind 
away at it. Do it from the real things and people” — he 
waved his thumb about. “For instance, see that group at 
the piano? By Jove, that’s good ! There is Linda sitting 
there in that brown-and-yellow gown of hers — see how 
nicely her head comes in — and there is your aunt, a picture 
in herself, looking up from an easy-chair with a smile; it’s 
as though she was saying she’d like to hear a song of her 
youth. See? Isn’t that a good subject.” 

“Delightful!” exclaimed Jean, while Baldwin stood up 
to rummage on the table for a pencil, with which he pres- 
ently began to make a few rapid strokes on a leaf of Jean’s 
sketch-book. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he went on, drawing 
rapidly, until suddenly his unconscious model rose and he 
exclaimed : 

“O Linda! you’ve spoiled a work of art.” 

But Jean had caught his meaning and quite understood 
what he meant that she should do, and felt only anxious 
to discuss it anew with Carrington. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


191 


“Mr. Baldwin has given me a wonderful lamp,” she 
said, smiling, as George, in obedience to a look from her 
sweet dark eyes, drew near. “ And it only rests with you, 
Mr. Carrington, whether you will let me test its powers 
in your studio.” 

Carrington smiled. 

“I am at your service,” he said quietly. “ Will you put 
on a big apron and come down to-morrow morning? I 
shall be working from a very good model — the airy fairy 
Burton, Baldwin — and you can sketch away to your heart’s 
content.” 

Jean felt so encouraged that it was an easy matter to 
accede to the general request that she should sing for 
them; but her voice nearly failed her as she tried one of 
the old French ballads the Colonel had called his favorites, 
and she was better pleased to play an accompaniment for 
Linda, whose voice, if a trifle too tragic just at present, 
was really very fine — rich and full of feeling, with the 
cadence of a perfect contralto. Jean could not help 
understanding why the girl “aspired” to use such a voice in 
public, and yet she was equally certain that Carrington’s 
decisions must be right. He could only have good motives 
for anything of the kind, and she wondered why Linda did 
not turn her attention to church music. A voice such as 
hers could not but be deeply impressive in sacred music, 
and she decided to discuss the question with him at her 
earliest opportunity. 

Certainly the evening was not only delightfully enter- 
taining, but it spurred Jean on in the direction she longed 
to take, and little as Carrington had said, she knew he had 
considered every opinion, and was in earnest about her 
working the next day in the studio. 

“The ‘airy fairy,’ as we call her, will make you laugh,” 


192 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


said Linda when their guests had departed and she was 
bidding Jean good-night. “She has been a model all her 
life, and the boys have the greatest amount of fun out of 
her. She imagines her criticisms are invaluable, and 
passes them on everything perfectly seriously. She never 
sees they are chaffing her. You should hear her tell how, 
when she was posing for M.’s picture of ‘Hamlet and the 
Queen,’ he told her he couldn’t imagine why the critics 
found fault with his subjects, and she goes on to say: 
‘ “ Well , Mr. M.,” says I, “I never find nothink wrong with 
your work,” and M. says to me, just a- squeezin' my hand: 
“That’s so, Burton, and it’s what keeps me up , girl.” ’ ” 

Jean laughed quite as much at Linda’s clever assump- 
tion of Miss Burton’s cockney accent as anything in the 
story, and Linda continued : 

“You know, these professional models are a class by 
themselves and wonderfully good-hearted. No one knows 
how kind little Burton has been to many a struggling one 
of the boys. She’s been nurse and doctor and banker for 
many a one, I assure you, and the poor girl is dragging 
out a hopeless engagement with a young fellow, who, I’m 
afraid, is dying of consumption. Her only extravagance 
is in a very radiant out-of-door costume which she wears 
on occasion. ‘My Billy,’ as she always calls her fiance, 
evidently adores her, but, poor fellow, there is little chance 
but the grave as an ending to their story. Dear me, 
what a network life is,” said Linda, with a deep sigh. 
“I’m ages older than you, Miss Jean,” she went on, “in 
experience, although 1 am only nineteen. Well, good- 
night and good luck to-morrow.” 


XXX. 

Jean was aw r ake bright and early the next morning, hav- 
ing various matters on her mind which needed prompt 
attention. To begin with, there was the helping Polly on 
her really penitential journey, for only she and Jean under- 
stood how she dreaded beginning public-school life in 
earnest, and then there w 7 as the morning’s meal to prepare, 
which, simple as it was, cost the girls real anxiety. 

“Now the fire's all right !” said Jean, regarding the little 
stove with a cautious expression, “and now, Polly, with 
this French coffeepot we only need boiling water. I’m 
sure it’s simple enough. Where’s the coffee?” Polly made 
a dive for the cupboard, in which they had stored a few 
provisions for breakfast. “And now, while 1 am making 
the coffee, will you run down and see if the baker left our 
rolls with Miss Kate’s? I asked him to do so.” 

Polly, who quite enjoyed this “housekeeping made 
easy,” as Jean had called it, flew off on the errand, and 
presently a fine aroma of Jean’s coflee was perceptible, and 
she made haste to set out their little table as daintily as 
possible, having determined that there should be no untidi- 
ness to mar good appetite in their little household. It really 
looked very cosey and inviting when Polly returned with 
a plate of fresh rolls; and when the eggs w’ere boiled and 
breakfast announced as ready, the girls sat down with a 
fine spirit of self-satisfaction to enjoy their little meal 
together and discuss the plans of the day ahead. Miss 
Dyker was still sleeping, and Jean meant to take her break- 


194 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


fast to her on a little tray when she awoke. Now Polly 
had to be given her undivided attention. 

“ Keep up bravely, dearest,” was Jean’s parting injunc- 
tion. “And when you come home we’ll go down to the 
library near by, which Miss Kate told us about, and draw 
some nice books to read this evening. Remember 1 expect 
you very soon to keep our account-books!” 

Polly tried to laugh, but she went away, poor little 
dethroned princess, with rather a heavy heart if. the truth 
were known. But Mary Davidson was on the watch for her 
and introduced her to her own particular friends — Annie 
Graham, Amelia Flicker, and Elsa Braun — every one of 
whom accorded the stranger a cordial greeting in down- 
right schoolgirl fashion, and, as Polly felt at once, with- 
out the slightest regard as to whether she was a Smith or 
a Dyker. She was a new girl, tall and bright and won- 
derfully pretty, and the band of friends decided to take 
her in cordially, at least on trial, even though, as she now 
knew, her actual place in school was among the younger 
children. Babies, she called them, almost tearfully, to 
herself when she was introduced to the primary depart- 
ment. 

Meanwhile Jean at home was trying to make Miss Dyker 
as comfortable as possible, feeling eager to get down to 
the studio and try her ’prentice hand under Carrington’s 
kindly guidance. She had determined to make an effort 
to be patient and not let her anxiety interfere with learn- 
ing the rudiments of art, which she was well aware she 
sorely needed, since that faculty for chic she was sure had 
been almost an injury to her work. Certainty it would, 
not advance her much in making practical use of her 
ability. She had not the desirable big apron, but she pre- 
sented herself at the studio door, and Carrington’s quick 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


195 


“Come in” was followed by bis opening the door bimself 
and welcoming her cordially. 

“The airy fairy one has not come yet,” he observed, 
“but it is just as well, for you will have the fun of seeing 
her make her entrance.” 

And indeed he had scarcely finished speaking before the 
door-bell rang, there was a quick rustle of drapery along 
the hall, and first a small face under a very large hat 
appeared around the door, the figure of the wearer coming 
gradually into view, while Miss Burton exclaimed in a 
shrill but not really unpleasant voice: 

“ Wish you the time of day, old man; I hope you feel 
full of good work to-day.” 

She drew back on seeing Jean, whom she regarded for 
an instant as a possible rival, but Carrington made haste 
to say, looking very gravely in Jean’s direction: 

“Miss Dyker, allow me to introduce Miss Burton. Miss 
Burton,” he continued, “Miss Dyker, I am happy to say, 
is going to work for a little while in my studio. She and 
her aunt are visiting us at present.” 

Miss Burton nodded her head in a very friendly and 
approving manner. 

“You’ve struck a good thing, Miss Dyker, then,” she 
observed generously, “for I’ll tell you what it is, to be Mr. 
Carrington’s pupil is worth something.” 

“Good little Burton,” said Carrington approvingly, and 
patting her on the shoulder; “you always stand by us, 
don’t you?” 

Miss Burton nodded her head and proceeded to lay aside 
her hat and jacket, after which she inquired what they 
were going to do. 

Carrington had been occupying himself in placing a 
new stretcher on his easel and in preparing one for 


19G 


A FA MIL Y 1JIL EMMA. 


Jean on a smaller stand near by, and he now requested 
Miss Burton to take her place in a high-back easy-chair 
against a screen over which he had flung a piece of pale 
blue drapery. Jean watched with interest his arrange- 
ment of the girl’s pose, and her easy adaptation. He ad- 
justed her head at the proper angle, lifted one hand so 
that it rested idly at the back of her neck, and then 
placed an open sheet of music in her other hand. 

“Now, then,” said Carrington "in a very businesslike 
manner, “you are singing from that music, do you see? 
Open your mouth a little — oh, come on, Burton! I 
didn't say you were yawning .” 

Miss Burton received the suggestion with perfect 
equanimity, and at last got her lips into the proper posi- 
tion, while Jean could not but admire the thoroughly 
businesslike spirit with which she entered into her work, 
and began to think that, after all, the girl had more to do 
with the artist’s picture than they gave her credit for. 
It made her think of one of Mrs. Mackenzie’s favorite 
maxims, that the secret of success lies in doing whatever 
you undertake thoroughly well, no matter how humble 
the grade of work may be. 

“Now, then, Miss Dyker,” said Carrington, “just go 
ahead and don’t try to do anything fine, but make the 
best you can out of just what you see before you. Keep 
your mind and eye fixed on just reproducing the impres- 
sion they receive of the girl in the chair. Of course,” he 
continued, “this is only to give you a start, because you’ll 
have to do some hard work, I fancy, from casts before 
your hand is free enough.” 

The work began in earnest, and with the exception of 
an occasional bit of melody softly whistled by Carrington 
half under his breath, scarcely a sound disturbed the quiet 


The Artist’s Studio. 









A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


197 


of the studio. Miss Burton’s eyes after a time wandered 
to the clock, and Carrington, looking in the same direc- 
tion, said, “All right, you can take five minutes,” and 
when the girl sprang to her feet he walked over to Jean’s 
side and deliberately inspected her work. 

“Well, you see,” he observed, “Baldwin was right; this 
is just what you need, and I’m not a bit afraid but that 
we’ll make something of you yet.” 

He sat down near her and with his own pencil began to 
put in touches here and there which astonished Jean in 
that they suddenly revealed what her sketch had needed 
and gave it a finished air. He talked on a few moments, 
indicating her faults, criticising and suggesting, then ex- 
claiming, “Now, my dear, get back to work again,” sent 
Miss Burton to her high-back chair, piece of music, and 
graceful pose. 

It was nearly tvrelve o’clock when Jean remembered 
that there were other things to be thought of than the 
work in which she was now enthusiastically engaged, and 
she rose, reminding Carrington that she had her aunt to 
consider, “and,” she added, smiling, “you know I am 
housekeeper upstairs as well.” 

“All right,” said Carrington, “and by and by if 3 r ou 
can come down again, Miss Jean; we’ll talk this matter 
over, and I hope you feel,” he added, “as encouraged as 
I do.” 

“I shall try to,” said Jean, “and anyway I shall never 
forget how much your kindness has done for me.” 

Once upstairs again, however, there was little chance 
of a return to the studio, since Miss Dyker was in a most 
forlorn frame of mind, and was only to be comforted by 
Jean’s taking lunch with her and sitting down for a little 
hopeful talk. Then Polly came in, breathless and ex- 


198 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


cited, not wishing to wait even until Jean could do more 
than put on her out-ol’-door garments. She had the ad- 
dress of the nearest public library all written down, and 
had discovered that the only thing necessary to obtain 
books would be the use of Miss Kate and Carrington’s 
names. 

“Do hurry up, Jean dear,” she urged, “for it begins to 
look like rain, and I’m so anxious to get there to-day.” 

They paused for one moment at the studio door, that 
Jean might explain her errand, and to ask whether Miss 
Kate would take the trouble to pay a little friendly visit 
to Miss Dyker in their absence. 

Carrington, who was looking very grave and preoc- 
cupied, reassured them on this point, as well as giving 
them the permission desired to use him as a reference, and 
a moment later they were out on the busy avenue, and 
following the directions given, walked quickly down, 
turning out into lower Second Avenue. 


XXXI. 


The girls liad little difficulty either in finding the 
Ottendorfer or, once within its heavy doorway, making 
their way to the main reading room, and after a short 
delay had their slips made out, their references put on file, 
etc. This formality gone through with, they found them- 
selves free to choose from what appeared to be an inex- 
haustible store. 

Polly, loyal to her first love, insisted upon something 
of Miss Alcott’s, and Jean selected, by Carrington’s 
advice, an enchanting book, the title of which belied its 
lighter charm. “The Intellectual Life,” by Hamerton, 
was her choice, and when Polly made a wry face over a 
book with such a name Jean made haste to explain what 
Mr. Carrington had said about it. 

“And we’ll read it aloud, Polly,” she continued, “so 
that, if you don’t like it, it will be easy enough for you to 
say so.” 

Jean was standing with her cousin near one of the tables 
as she spoke, and in the same instant a very curious thing 
occurred. She raised her eyes and unexpectedly con- 
fronted another pair in a face so strangely like her own 
that she started in amazement. 

The owner of the face was a young girl standing 
directly opposite her, and who, it was clearly evident, was 
quite as much astonished as herself. There were the same 
characteristics of coloring, almost the same outline of 
feature, and what made the resemblance the more strik- 
ing was that certain tricks of expression natural to Jean 

199 


200 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


were mirrored, as it were, in the face of the gir] before 
her. 

It was impossible for them not to betray their mutual 
recognition at least of this fact, and Polly, who was look- 
ing on, exclaimed in a low tone of voice as the young 
stranger, with a peculiar smile, walked away: 

“Why, Jean, did you know you had a twin sister?” 

“Did 3'ou ever see anything like it?” answered Jean in 
an awe-struck tone of voice; “and look, Polly,” she con- 
tinued, “I believe she is trying to find out who we are.” 

The young girl was holding a whispered consultation 
with the lady at the desk, a half glance over her shoulder 
evidently indicating the subject of her remarks. She 
lingered a moment or two and then walked slowly, reluc- 
tantly away, turning at the door for one more look back in 
the direction of her unknown double. 

“I never saw anything like it,” declared Polly. “ Why, 
Jean, except that she is younger, and has not exactly your 
way of walking, she might be your very self. I wonder 
if we could not find out who she is.” 

“I’ve half a mind,” said Jean, “to speak to the lady at 
the desk about it. Yes, I will,” she went on. “She can’t 
think it impertinent when it’s such a queer coincidence.” 

The lady did not seem at all surprised when Jean made 
the enquiry, but laughed good-humoredly as she said it 
was precisely what the other girl had done. 

“I must say,” she continued, “I never saw anything 
more striking in the way of a resemblance before, and to 
think that you are perfect strangers to each other. She 
comes here very often,” the lady went on, “and I’m sure 
there can’t be any harm in giving you her name.” 

She lifted up a little card at her side and read it off: 

“ ‘Edith Morris, No. — Fourth Avenue.’ She asked 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


201 


your name,” the lady went on, “because she said it fairly 
startled her to see anyone so like herself.” 

“Well, if she comes again, will you please tell her that 
I did the same thing? and I trust she won’t consider it an 
impertinence,” said Jean, with a smile. 

“Oh, not at all,” said the lady; “she’s one of the nicest 
3 r oung girls who come here. She and several of her 
young friends are very much interested in looking up 
references, and I’ve got so used to them now I know just 
the kind of books they want. Her mother has a fancy 
store on Fourth Avenue, and I believe this young girl is 
her only child.” 

Jean thanked the lady very politely for her information, 
and as she and Polly left the building they talked eagerly 
over what had occurred. 

“Suppose we walk up past the place, Polly,” suggested 
Jean; “I think the rain will hold off a little longer.” 

It was decidedly an adventure, both girls felt — some- 
thing they could amuse Miss Dyker with on their return, 
and accordingly the} 7 made their way into Fourth Avenue 
and toward the number which the librarian had given 
them. Then they stood still a moment, looking with inter- 
est at the house w T here Jean’s double lived. 

It was on a corner, a modest, unpretending three-story 
brick dwelling, the ground floor of which was occupied by 
a small store w T ith one large window, in which a variety of 
articles in fancy-work and the usual implements connected 
with them were displayed, some samples of lace and fine 
embroidery having a place among them. The name 

“C. Morris” 

in gilt lettering showed that it was indeed the home of the 
young girl whom they had seen. 


202 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Can’t we make an excuse, Jean?” whispered Polly. 
“ You want worsted needles or something, don’t you? Let 
us just go in, and perhaps we’ll see her again.” 

Jean’s curiosity was quite as well aroused as her cousin’s, 
and in a moment more the girls were inside the little shop 
door, while through an open doorway at the back they saw 
the object of their interest talking to a tall, dark -haired 
lady, who turned quickly and came forward to attend to 
her customers. 

She gave the same start on seeing Jean that her daughter 
had done, but was evidently only in a hurry to get rid of 
her customers, answering their questions almost sharply, 
so that Jean found it impossible to speak on any subject 
but the business in hand. The young girl still hovered 
in the distance, and Polly fancied that she would have 
come forward but for a warning gesture from her mother, 
who was evidently more annoyed than amused by what 
had taken place. It was clearly impossible to do more 
than wait for her change and walk out again, but Jean 
determined that, sooner or later, she would try to find out 
something more of a girl who might easily pass for herself 
anywhere. It was hardly comfortable, she reflected, to 
think of there being another human being on earth so 
exactly like yourself, and she found herself wondering 
what Carrington’s opinion on the subject would be. 

Meanwhile Edith Morris had darted out into the store, 
exclaiming: 

“Mother, I do believe they just came here to have 
another look at me. I wonder who on earth they can be.” 

Mrs. Morris’ face clouded. “Well, you said you had 
the name, Edith,” she answered. 

“Oh, yes, I wrote it down. Here it is.” 

And she took from her book a slip of paper on which 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


203 


she had written down the two names: “Jean Dyker, Mary 
Dyker.” 

“ And see, here are their references : ‘Mr. George Carring- 
ton, 15 Benton Square; Miss Kate Carrington, 15 Benton 
Square.’ Oh, how I wish I could find out more about them.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing but an accident,” said Mrs. Morris 
carelessly; but she dared not let her daughter see how 
much the “accident” had troubled her. 

“Did you eyer know anyone named Dyker, mother?” 
continued the girl. 

Mrs. Morris caught her breath quickly. 

“I think I’ve heard the name,” she said in a low tone of 
voice. 

“Now, Edith, dear,” she continued, “like a good girl go 
out and see whether the fire is all right for supper. You 
know we will have Harry Perry and his uncle here with- 
out fail this evening.” 

Edith departed to attend to the domestic part of the 
house, which was a charge very dear to her heart, and 
Mrs. Morris, left alone, sank down into a chair behind her 
counter, leaning her head on her hands, remaining lost in 
thought for the next five minutes. 

Was all the sweet security, the peaceful, happy com- 
panionship of the last few years, to be broken into and 
hopelessly disturbed? What could she do, she asked her- 
self, if these people were to hunt her up, perhaps even to 
take her child from her? Her mind went back, with a 
swiftness born of its deep anxiety, recalling every incident 
of an experience many years ago — of a promise she had 
made and faithfully kept — of struggles she had endured 
with poverty and anxiety; and through all had she not 
done her duty in every particular by the girl who was at 
once the pride and comfort of her life? 


204 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs. Morris, rising suddenly, and 
speaking almost aloud in her excitement; “I have the 
right on my side; m3 7 claim is the first and a just one.” 

Where she stood she could hear Edith humming lightly 
the air of a popular ballad while she busied herself over 
preparations for their evening meal. They were expecting 
company. An old gentleman, who had once been her ten- 
ant, and his nephew were expected, as well as an elderly 
maiden lady, Miss Rose, who lived near by and was pleased 
and flattered by an occasional invitation to tea, Mrs. Mor- 
ris doing the honors on such an occasion with genuine hos- 
pitality. Edith half expected a friend of hers, a girl of 
about her own age, so that altogether, as Mrs. Morris well 
knew, there was no time for her to sit still indulging in 
reminiscences of the past and exciting dread of the future. 
With whom, she wondered, could she — dared she take 
counsel? She had lived so long dependent on herself in 
almost every way, capable of meeting all the ordinaiy 
emergencies of life, that she found herself confused and 
perplexed by this question, but at last resolved that she 
would say something on the subject to her old friend Mr. 
Perry, and consult by letter, if he advised it, her brother- 
in-law, Charles Morris, who was a Boston lawyer. 

In some way the poor woman felt, as she rose to attend 
to a customer who appeared at the moment, as though she 
had all along expected just such an hour as this, and yet 
she felt herself totally unprepared to meet it. More than 
that, what would Edith say were she to know the whole 
story of the past? She would not love her less, Mrs. Morris 
hoped, while she mechanically matched a sample of wool 
for her customer and answered some casual remark about 
the weather, for there had been the closest kind of a bond 
always between the two. Since the days when Mrs. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


205 


Morris had brought the child by tenderest care through one 
infantile sickness after another up to the present moment 
there had never been lacking one hour of gentlest consid- 
eration on her part for everything that could be for 
Edith’s good. And what was best of all, the girl de- 
served and appreciated it. While she yielded to her 
mother’s advice, and was keeping on for this year at least 
her school work, she was only anxious to relieve Mrs. 
Morris of some of the burden of her daily life, and already 
had assumed charge of the housekeeping matters, which 
she controlled well, thoroughly enjoying the work. 

Humble though it might be, it was as happy a little 
home as could be found in the great city. The two who 
shared it had no wide ambitions, though Edith was very 
fond of planning a future in which there should be more 
money to spend on the luxuries of life, some chance to 
travel about and see the world. She w 7 as old enough to 
be anxious to assert that kind of independence which 
would enable her to be her mother’s adviser as well as 
companion, but so far there had come no breaks between 
them, either in complete mutual confidence or action. 
Edith would graduate at the normal school this year, soon 
after her nineteenth birthday, and then, as Mrs. Morris 
realized, life would begin in earnest for the girl. 


XXXII. 


No cosier home in all New York, Edith was fond of 
saying, could be found than theirs, and fond as the girl 
was of study, she enjoyed housekeeping beyond every- 
thing else, taking a keen pride in having every detail per- 
fect, yet never wearying others by her over-particularity; 
and to entertain a few friends in a simple, homelike, and 
refined way gave the girl as much pleasure as some of her 
schoolmates derived from the balls which they attended, 
and against which Edith’s mother had resolutely and 
wisely set her face. 

“ Ask your young friends here whenever we can entertain 
them,” Mrs. Morris would say; “let them know that if 
they know you they must know your mother, and if a suit- 
able party is made up for any good amusement outside you 
can share in it — but no child of mine shall be seen on the 
floor of a public ballroom.” 

And Edith willingly gave in to her mother’s opinion, 
especially when their valued friend old Mr. Perry en- 
dorsed it in the most emphatic manner; and Harry, young 
as he was, would declare: “Edith Morris has to be met 
at home if you want her acquaintance,” recognizing it as 
a privilege to be allowed an evening now and then in the 
young girl’s company. 

During that rainy, chilly afternoon, while Edith 
hummed gayly over her work in the rooms upstairs which 
Mrs. Morris reserved for their own use, her mother found 
it hard enough to drive all anxiety from her mind, and at 

206 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


207 


last, when the afternoon had drawn to a close, decided 
that, whatever Mr. Perry advised, she would at least com- 
municate with her brother-in-law, Charles Morris, whom 
she had only seen once in her life, but whom she well knew 
to be a man of sound judgment, good common-sense, and 
well versed in the intricacies of legal lore. He had not inter- 
fered with any of his sister-in-law’s affairs, chiefly because 
she had never asked his advice. His brother’s marriage had 
not entirely pleased him. He was an elderly bachelor of 
fastidious, reserved tastes and habits, and satisfied that his 
brother’s widow and the child were not in any want, he 
preferred not keeping up a close correspondence which 
might create social demands. It would be tiresome, he 
reflected, to have a “rattling New York girl,” as he pre- 
sumed Edith might be, quartered on him for a visit from 
time to time; and he felt a trifle ashamed of the fact that 
such near relations — his very nearest — earned their living 
in trade. He understood — and approved — of Edith’s in- 
tention to be a school-teacher; that quite fitted in with 
his New England ideas of what was a suitable and digni- 
fied waj T of earning her living; and decided that, as soon 
as she was definitely started upon this honorable career, he 
would extend some invitation for her holidays, provided 
she turned out to be creditable in appearance. Mrs. 
Morris said very little, but she thoroughly understood her 
brother-in-law’s motives in keeping them at a distance, and 
while she did not exactly resent it, it spurred her on to 
make of Edith all that the most exacting of Boston uncles 
could require. What a triumph it would be to her when 
she could present the sweet, ladylike, well-educated girl to 
him as his niece, the product of good home training, and 
Edith’s innate refinement and gentle character. No doubt 
he would ascribe it largely to her inheritance as a Morris j 


208 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


but, at all events, lie would know that her home associa- 
tions were of her mother’s making. 

Now, however, Mrs. Morris felt that an emergeney had 
arisen which made it an imperative duty to consult her 
husband’s brother. Just what she would write she could 
not decide until she had taken counsel on some points with 
old Mr. Perry. He was wise and kind, loved Edith 
dearly, and was the only human being in New York who 
knew anything of Mrs. Morris’ early life. 

“Now, then, mamma,” exclaimed Edith, rushing into 
the store about half-past five, “won’t you go and dress 
yourself for the evening? We might as well close a little 
early. No one will come looking for fancy-work such a 
night as this. The Perrys and little Elsa Braun are sure 
to be here early.” 

Edith’s own simple toilet was made: a gown of dark 
blue, with trimming of silk cord and tiny gilt buttons. 
There was no chance for extravagance in Edith’s dress at 
any time, but it was always in quiet good taste, while her 
lovely, youthful bloom, perhaps not to be called downright 
beauty, but infinitely more attractive from her innocence, 
freshness of color, the sparkle of her soft dark eyes and 
sweetness of expression, than mere regularity of feature, 
set oft* her simple costume in a way which many a jaded 
society belle could have envied. 

Mrs. Morris was glad to accept Edith’s suggestion. She 
went away slowly , glancing in at the kitchen, where Edith 
had everything in readiness for the simple supper, and 
then, going upstairs, she surveyed the little front parlor 
with its attractive look of home, its refined simplicity, 
much of which was due to Edith’s good taste, as well as 
her mother’s objection to merely cheap display. 

The floor was stained and polished, covered only by three 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


209 


rugs of good dark colors, the furniture was solid and old- 
fashioned, the draperies a pretty well-lined chintz, while 
Edith’s piano and violin case suggested the girl’s real 
talent, as well as the manjr pleasant evenings which had 
been spent in the little room. A small bookcase was well 
filled with good reading, the centre table held a pretty 
drop-light, some magazines, and Edith’s work-basket, while 
the grate fire leaped and burned cheerily, diffusing a glow 
over the various objects in the room, as well as suggesting 
a cosey corner on this rainy, windy night. What should 
they do, thought Mrs. Morris, if the clouds she began to 
feel on their horizon were to gather, to darken, and to 
burst? And then, as with half-tremulous fingers she made 
her own toilet, Mrs. Morris asked herself had she done 
right either in shrinking from or perhaps postponing a 
duty. 

“Mother,” called Edith’s voice from below, “can’t I tell 
Sammy to close up the store?” And Mrs. Morris roused 
herself to answer “Yes” out of a veil of thought. 

Edith w r as only too eager to bid Sammy, a youth of 
tender years engaged for errands and chores by the day, 
to close the store; and having covered everything for the 
night, she locked the door of communication out into their 
narrow hallway. 

“Now, then,” the young girl exclaimed, “if we don’t 
have a pleasant evening, mother, it won’t be our fault. 
What’s the matter?” She wheeled around suddenly, and 
taking hold of her mother’s hands, looked her critically in 
the face. 

“I declare, mother,” she exclaimed, “I believe you’re 
going to get a chill or something.” 

Mrs. Morris roused herself quickly. 

“Indeed I am not,” she answered; “I’m going to enjoy 
14 


210 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


myself greatly, as I mean you to do. I want a little quiet 
talk,” she added, “with Mr. Perry on a business matter, 
so you won’t mind, my dear, when you and Harry and Elsa 
are amusing yourselves with the music if we seem a little 
bit rude in whispering together.” 

Edith promptly kissed her mother and answered: 

“I’ll make a bargain with you, then, mamma, dear : if 
Harry and I get too much interested in our music you 
won’t call us to order, and you and Mr. Perry may hobnob 
to your hearts’ content.” 

Fifteen minutes later a quick, sharp ring at the bell 
announced their guests’ arrival. There was the sound of 
stamping of feet as old Mr. Perry removed his overshoes 
in the hall and talked in quite a loud voice to Harry at the 
same time. Then there was Elsa’s shrill, gay little voice 
calling out, “Edith, are you there?” and in a few moments 
the invited guests were in the parlor. 

Mr. Perry the elder was a tall, thin, dark-complexioned 
man, with a face at once shrewd and kindly, and something 
in his look and manner which inspired confidence. His 
nephew, the Harry of whom Edith had spoken so many 
times, was a tall, well-built young fellow, with a fair, hand- 
some face, decidedly German in its blending of strength 
and sweetness, the eyes blue-gray under well-marked full 
brows, indicating his musical ability, and his blond type 
suggesting the finer qualities of his Teuton race. The 
young man had the frank heartiness of manner which no 
period of absence from the Fatherland can destroy in the 
German nature. There was a look of good comradeship 
in his expression, the touch of the same in his hearty grasp 
of the hand, and it was easy to understand why both he 
and his uncle were welcome guests. 

Harry made himself at home at once, and Edith made 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


211 


haste to show him her violin, the G string of which she 
was afraid was slightly out of order. In a moment the 
young people were busy producing those heartrending 
sounds which are the necessary prelude to any performance 
on that sweetest of all instruments, and while this was 
going on Mrs. Morris took the opportunity to say to Mr. 
Perry that she wished to consult him on a business matter. 

“ Certainly ,” he responded at once; “you know, my 
dear madam, how happy I am at any time to be of service 
to you.” 

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Morris quickly, “after a little 
while we will have a chance to talk it over. I need advice 
— the very best advice — at once, and I know of no one more 
competent to give it to me than yourself. However, this 
is just between ourselves for the present.” 

There was a knock at the door, and this time Miss 
Andrews, a music teacher who occupied a room in the 
house, appeared, well pleased with the impromptu invita- 
tion which had been afforded her, and a moment later a 
cheerful hum of conversation was goingon, Miss Andrews 
and Harry having their music under eager, amiable dis- 
cussion. 

Few pleasanter evenings had been spent than this in 
Mrs. Morris’ hospitable parlor, so far as all the guests 
were concerned. Miss Andrews was an admirable accom- 
panyist and delighted in. playing, while Edith and Elsa and 
Harry Perry made up a trio with their violins, Harry’s eye 
sharply upon the young girl, whose musical education he 
considered incomplete without liis occasional advice and 
supervision, and he had all the inspiration of his national- 
ity in the way he used his bow and fingers. 

“ What next?” said Edith suddenly after they had con- 
cluded quite a dashing tarantelle. 


212 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


Harry smiled back at her and said quietly: 

“Suppose we try the old cavatina — Raff’s.” 

Edith nodded — they waited for a moment for the inevi- 
table tuning up. Miss Andrews patiently struck the A on 
the keyboard before her over and over again, until at last 
young Perry said “ All right,” and having found her ac- 
companiment in the book Edith gave her, that sweetest, 
simplest, most harmonious of Raff’s compositions was be- 
gun. As Edith played all thought beyond or apart from her 
music was forgotten. The slow 7 , sw r eet melody, the gradual 
movement toward the minor, seemed to carry her w ith it 
aw r ay from every small vexation or hindrance in daily life. 
Many times had the girl asked herself w 7 hence had come 
this instinct, w 7 hich she dared not call genius, for musical 
life and utterance. So far as she knew there w 7 as none of 
it in her mother’s family, but that it w 7 as hers by birth- 
right she felt almost positive. Fond as she w r as of every- 
thing connected with home and household life, yet her 
moments of positive enthusiasm were w ? hen she expressed 
her feelings in music of some kind, whether listening to it 
or performing. Now she almost forgot her surroundings in 
the rendering of this bit of perfect harmony, and laid her 
violin down with a quick-drawn sigh, as though coming 
back from the realms of enchantment to an everyday pro- 
saic world. 

“Well done, Edith!” exclaimed Harry; “you never 
played better. What do you think of that, Mrs. Morris?” 
he added, turning suddenly to their hostess. Mrs. Morris 
started. She had been confiding, so far as she dared, in 
Mr. Perry, and his advice had been finally summed up in a 
few w 7 ords: she must write at once to her brother-in-law. 
She had told him that she feared she had kept Edith too 
long to herself; there were relatives, rich people, whom 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


213 


she had hesitated to make known to the child, lest it 
break the perfect bond between them; but now certain 
events had made it seem imperative to her to make known 
an important fact. While Edith and Harry, with little 
Miss Anderson, were absorbed in their music, Elsa occu- 
pied with a game Edith had given her, Mrs. Morris sum- 
moned up all her courage, and holding out her hand, said : 

“Mr. Perry, 1 am placed in a terrible position. I have 
heard something which makes me feel that I may have to 
break the silence of years. I need counsel at once. May 
I confide in you and ask your advice, relying upon your 
saying nothing without my permission ?” 

The old man smiled, and gave her his hand. 

“ For how many years,” he said, “ have you not known me 
as a trustworthy friend? You may be very sure I will 
betray no confidence and give you the very best of my 
advice.” 

“Then it is this,” said Mrs. Morris hurriedly, her face 
flushing and paling as she spoke: “Edith is not my own 
child; when she was a week old her mother died in my 
arms. Her husband had deserted her. Her one prayer was 
that I should take the little girl and never let her own 
people know of its existence. I had lost my own baby six 
months before. I was alone in the world — I did not need 
to give an account of myself to anyone. My husband’s 
brother did not even know that 1 had lost my child, so you 
see it was an easy matter for me to adopt the poor young 
creature’s little girl. And now, from what I hear, I am 
afraid I have done wrong in keeping knowledge of all this 
from Edith. Yet,” continued Mrs. Morris eagerly, “I 
would rather never see a cent of any money from anyone 
belonging to her and work my fingers to the bone sooner 
than part with her.” 


214 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Mr. Perry listened, fairly overwhelmed by what Mrs. 
Morris had revealed to him. What could he say or do? 
The question seemed too important to be decided there in 
the little homelike parlor, which he had so long consid- 
ered the hospitable resting-place of Mrs. Morris and her 
daughter; it confused all his ideas, and Mr. Perry started 
to his feet and gazed down upon Mrs. Morris w r ith an ex- 
pression half bewilderment, half dismay. 

“This is most extraordinary,” he exclaimed in a low 
tone; “you are sure — but of course you must be — of what 
you are saying, and” — he reseated himself and bent for- 
ward, continuing in a half whisper — “do you know, then, 
where Edith’s relations are?” 

“I know only this,” said Mrs. Morris hurriedly: “Her 
parents ran away and were married privately. The hus- 
band deserted his wife — the child w r as born in my house 
and left absolutely to my care. On her death-bed Edith’s 
mother begged of me to keep the little girl as my own, 
give her my name, and never let her know anything of her 
father. You can see for yourself that I have certainly 
done my duty by my child.” 

“Ah,” said the old man, drawing a deep breath, “that 
anyone can see. She is a credit in every way to you.” 

“And so,” Mrs. Morris continued hurriedly, “I did every- 
thing for her and by her as though she were my own. No 
one knows how I have struggled and even deprived myself 
in order to fit her for any position in life which she may 
be called upon to fill. And what shall I do if they take her 
from me ? ” 

The old man’s brows drew together in anxious thought. 

“Have you no one else to consult?” he enquired. 
“Where is your late husband’s brother, who w 7 as, I be- 
lieve, a very clever lawyer?” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


215 


“He is in Boston, and I mean to write to him to-night.” 

“ The wisest thing you could do,” exclaimed the old man. 
“Now, my friend,” he added, smiling, “do not look so 
miserable and unhappy. Cheer up; let us see what our 
young people are about.” 

And nodding his head sagely, Mr. Perry turned with his 
genial smile toward the trio at the piano, exclaiming 
loudly: 

“Come, come; can you not give us something a little 
less melancholy ? Come, Harry and Edith, how’ long is it 
since you have sung ‘Madele, ruck, ruck, ruck’ — or ‘Son- 
nenschein’ ? ” 

Edith laughed gayly. 

“Then, Mr. Perry,” she exclaimed, “if we sing ‘Son- 
nenschein’ you must join with us. Miss Andrews knows 
it, too; don’t you?” she continued. 

And in a few moments a chorus of Schumann’s exquisite 
song to the sunshine filled the little parlor with its perfect 
melody, Mr. Perry’s somewhat defiant bass not over- 
powering the sweet clear notes of the younger voices, 
w r hile Mrs. Morris sat listening and wondering, hoping 
and fearing. Was this to be one of the last of the tran- 
quilly happy evenings of her life? Hardest of all to con- 
sider, what would Edith say when she knew the whole 
story? 

The young people thoroughly enjoyed themselves; the 
little supper was a success, and Edith beamed with pleasure 
when her good cooking was praised by their guests ; yet 
she could not rid herself of a feeling that her mother was 
not at her ease — or could it be that she was ill? They had 
no secrets in their daily intercourse from each other, these 
twm; and directly they were alone Edith put her arms about 
Airs. Morris’ neck, and said almost tearfully: 


210 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Mother, dear , what is it? Have you any trouble on your 
mind that you hesitate to tell me? What am I worth if 
I have lost your confidence?” 

Tears sprang into the widow’s eyes. 

“My darling,” she said tenderly, “it is only this: Cer- 
tain events lately have made it seem right — that I should 
consult Mr. Charles Morris, in Boston, and you can fancy 
how it makes me feel, knowing that he has always looked 
down upon us.” 

Edith’s eyes flashed. 

“ I know, mother, dear,” she exclaimed ; “ and is it neces- 
sary now?” 

“Yes, Mr. Perry advised it strongly. Edith,” she 
added suddenly, and gazing down into the face of the 
young girl, who w r as kneeling beside her chair, “will you 
trust me for a few days without questioning me? Then I 
promise you shall be my first confidant. No matter what 
Charles says or does 1 will tell you everything.” 

“Trust you, mother,” said the girl slowly, and w r ith a 
note of irrepressible sadness in her voice; “wljy, of course 
you know I will. What else can I do.” 

“Ah, my darling,” Mrs. Morris exclaimed tenderly, 
“when I tell you of this business matter you will thor- 
oughly appreciate my reticence. Edith, you will be the 
first one to do so.” 

“There is nothing else for me to do, then,” said Edith, 
rising to her feet. She stood still for a moment irresolute, 
then, bending down, tenderly kissed her mother good- 
night. It was the first hint of anything like conceal- 
ment from each other, and when the girl had gone into her 
own room near by she sat down in the dark window try- 
ing to piece out what was a perplexing puzzle. So far as 
she knew there was no trouble in the little business, which 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


217 


Mrs. Morris carried on without the risk of any high or 
overleaping ambitions. What, then, could it be which so 
troubled her? It must be something unusual since it was 
of sufficient importance to warrant Mrs. Morris addressing 
her brother-in-law on the subieet. It was a long time, as 
Edith knew, since any letters liacl passed between them. But 
while the young girl sat up in her window, thinking anx- 
iously, Mrs. Morris had taken out her writing materials and 
had nerved herself to the very unpleasant task of address- 
ing a fewlines to the Boston lawyer, who must soon know all. 

“There has arisen,” she wrote, “in my quiet life a very 
troublesome matter, which I feel that I must consult you 
about. To be brief, I think that I ought now to inform you 
that Edith is not my r own child, although she does not 
know it. I adopted her soon after my little baby’s death, 
with my poor husband’s full consent. He died a month 
later. I moved from the neighborhood I had lived in and 
no ono on earth but myself ever knew that I was not 
Edith’s mother in fact, as I certainly was in affection. 
Now, I fear, from little things which have come to my 
knowledge, that I shall be wronging her if I do not make 
her real parentage known. Iler mother’s family, I feel 
sure, are people of great wealth and high position. If I 
could see you, dear Mr. Morris, I could lay all the details 
of the case before you, and you could advise me just what 
I had better do.” 

She dared not trust herself to delay, but having sealed, 
stamped, and addressed the letter, she slipped out of the 
house and put it with her own hands into the box on the 
corner. 

Come what might, Mrs. Morris reflected on returning to 
the house, she had done what was clearly her duty — but at 
what a cost to herself she alone could ever tell. 


XXXIII. 


It was an unusual thing for George Carrington to leave 
his studio in the morning, hut on a certain day, not long 
after his impromptu supper party, the young man informed 
Jean, who had prepared for work, that he must positively 
go down-town and look up two or three articles he needed 
for his picture, but she, of course, was at liberty to make 
any and every use of the studio she liked. 

Jean moved about listlessly for a few moments, while 
Linda, taking advantage of her brother’s absence, was 
starting in for some vigorous dusting, a thing Carrington 
abhorred in his presence. 

“There are piles of things here,’' exclaimed Linda, 
“that I daren’t lay a finger on. I presume George thinks 
that they will mellow and improve from cobwebs, like old 
wine. But oh, how I long to get at them. 1 know I 
could find ever so many things he considers lost. Never- 
theless,” she continued, “1 must do the best I possibly can 
with the small amount of libert}^ he allows me.” 

She had placed a high step-ladder at one side of the room, 
and mounting it slowly, sat down on the top, while she con- 
tinued : 

“From this bird’s-eye view I can see so much to do in 
the room, Miss Gamier, that 1 am almost hopeless. I 
came up here to get at the ceiling.” 

The door-bell gave a sudden peal, and Linda, gazing 
down from her perch, said: 

“Oh, icoulcl you mind going to the door? Maggie” — 
218 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


219 


the little maid of all work — “is out, and I’m simply black 
with dust already.” 

Jean very cheerfully did as she was asked, uttering a 
cry of surprise and delight on admitting Dick Appleton. 

In her excitement, scarcely waiting to hear that he had 
seized a chance to run on for a day or two, she led the way 
back into the studio, where, suddenly remembering Linda’s 
elevated position, she stopped short very much confused, 
but obliged to laugh, for Linda dung a look of mute re- 
proach and dismay upon her, while Dick stood still, not 
knowing just what he was expected to do or say. 

“I beg your pardon a thousand times,” exclaimed Jean, 
laughing. “Miss Carrington,” she went on sedately, 
again, “don’t move, if you please, but allow me to intro- 
duce my cousin, Richard Appleton.” 

“Delighted to see you, Mr. Appleton,” said Linda de- 
murely, “and if you wait a moment I’ll come down and 
shake hands. I came up here for the purpose of seeing 
how much dusting the room would require.” 

“Allow me,” said Richard, smiling and going forward. 
He offered her his hand while she came slowly down the 
steps and then exclaimed in her gayest manner: 

“You must understand it is a wonderful chance to have 
my brother out for a whole morning, and your cousin and 
I intended to make things somewhat presentable before he 
came back.” 

“1 hope he will appreciate it,” said Dick gravely, and 
wondering what there was about this girl to make her so 
bewitching and attractive, while Jean made haste to say: 

“Will you come upstairs at once, Dick, and see Aunt 
Ellen? It will do her a world of good, for she is miser- 
ably down-hearted.” 

A moment later and the cousins were on the staircase, 


220 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


Jean rapidly going over a few details of what bad occurred 
since their last meeting. They paused a moment on the 
upper landing, and Dick said quickly: 

“I can only spend a daj' or two here, Jeanie, and you 
must manage to come out with me. 1 have so much to 
say, and only this little time to spend in New York.” 

“Very well. I must wait until Polly comes home from 
school; then I am at your disposal. I shall enjoy noth- 
ing better than a long ramble about with you. I am 
trying to do something with my pencil,” she continued, 
“and no one in the world could be kinder than Mr. Car- 
rington; but, O Dick, I’m afraid I’m a long way off from 
making much money.” 

Ilis brows drew together, and he laid his hand affection- 
ately on the girl’s shoulder. 

“I wonder if you know or can guess,” he said gravely, 
“what it costs me, Jean, to see you struggling in this fash- 
ion — and that girl up there at the Hill House spending 
money right and left. She has her aunt with her now — 
the old Irishwoman — and I dare not think just what she 
intends to do next. She seems to be only anxious to 
show her power to fling money away. Dr. Fraser, annoyed 
as he feels, seems to consider himself helpless in the 
matter.” 

“We must not think of her or the old place,” said Jean 
hurriedly; “it would paralyze me completely, and there is 
nothing for us to do now but make the best of things and 
try to earn money, since it is absurd to think of support- 
ing our family, especially with Aunt Ellen in delicate 
health, on the small income Polly and I have between us. 
Come in now, Dick,” she went on; “cheer Aunt Ellen to 
the best of your ability, while I will put on my things, for 
Polly will be in any minute.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


221 


Miss D}dver’s worn cheek flushed with pleasure at sight 
of her favorite, and Dick did his part 'wonderfully well, 
driving away all of the old lady’s “lone lorn” feelings, 
and assuring her that he was only afraid she would set up 
for a tine lady of fashion now that she was one of the 
dwellers in Gotham. 

“And what do you suppose, Aunt Ellen,” he continued, 
“./have in mind to do? I’ve been talking over different 
things with an old friend whom I met unexpectedly, and 
he’s advised my trying newspaper work; so I intend seeing 
one or two editors, whom I have a slight acquaintance 
with, to-day. They say it’s as easy as winking your eyes. 
All you have to do is to get hold of a subject that you 
know something about and then rattle away as fast as you 
can, just as long as you can spin out something amusing.” 

The ladies listened with almost reverential attention. 

“Why, that sounds delightful!” exclaimed Jean. “Do 
you mean to say you intend to be an editor , Dick?” 

“Well, I mean,” said Dick, laughing, “to see whether 
an editor will allow me to be a reporter. That’s about 
the size of it. If he doesn’t require me to actually black 
his boots by way of a beginning I shall consider myself 
fortunate. As I understand it, I must be ready to go 
anywhere he chooses to send me by way of a trial. It 
may be to a police court or possibly to a fire. All that 1 
am required to do is to dash off a thrilling report of what 
I see and come back with it in time for the next edition.” 

“And will you sign your name?” inquired Jean very 
anxiously. 

“Yes, to any check I may receive,” said Richard; “but 
I hardly think they will require me to have it in colored 
lettering, so to speak, in the paper. It might hurt the 
circulation.” 


222 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Is the whole of this a joke,” demanded Jean 
suddenly, “or do you mean to say that you really propose 
to run around with fire-engines?” 

“I hope for the latter,” said Dick, “and that there will 
be something ’very thrilling for me to report. You see, 
my dear girl,” he went on seriously, “they don’t care 
one atom at a newspaper office who 3-011 are or what 3-ou 
are or whence you are, so long as 3 T ou do your work satis- 
factorily. Now and then it pays them to have someone’s 
name tacked on to an article, but nine times out of ten if 
John Smith does better work than the lion. Augustus 
Montmorenci, for instance, J. S. will get the job, draw his 
salary, and no one be the wiser.” 

There was the sudden sound of the door-bell, then a dash 
up the stairs, and breathless and eager, Polly made her 
appearance in the little room. 

“ Richard !” she exclaimed with genuine delight ; “ wdiere 
did 37-011 come from? How too lovely for an3 r thing!” 

“At this rate,” said Dick, while Polly nearly shook his 
hand off, “I shall never want to return to Thornton. I 
don’t deserve such a welcome unless my own delight in 
seeing 3^011 all is worth it. Now, then, Jean,” he con- 
tinued, “since Polly has come back, let us make haste for 
our walk.” 

If Polly felt a trifle slighted on seeing her cousins start 
off together, she made a brave effort not to betray the 
feeling; moreover, she had lately been delighted to find 
herself of great importance to her Aunt Ellen, who could 
not, if she had tried for a year, have found an easier way 
into Polly’s good graces than by approving of every little 
attention the girl showed her. And now, when Polly 
went into the old lady’s room to explain that “Jean and 
Dick had gone off philandering,” she was rewarded by the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


223 


bright look her aunt gave her, and the way in which Miss 
Dyker said : 

“So much the better, Polly. I’ll have you all to myself 
for a little while.” 

In some unaccountable fashion since coming to New 
York Polly and her aunt had found themselves drawn to 
each other in a way which, while it delighted the old lady, 
flattered Polly. She had never understood before how 
the old depend upon and cling to the young — never under- 
stood what her youth and brightness could be to the old 
aunt fast descending the hill of life; nor had she in the 
least appreciated how* interesting a companion an old lady 
like Miss Dyker could be. 

“How I wish you could go about with us, Aunt Ellen,” 
said Polly, sitting down on a little footstool near the 
chimney-piece, and leaning her head back while she gazed 
up into Miss Dyker’s thin, quiet face. “A girl at the 
school was telling me that when her grandmother was 
young this used to be a very fashionable neighborhood.” 

“And so it was,” said Miss Dyker, drawing herself up 
erectly. “I suppose, Polly, you can’t imagine that I was 
ever young and bright, as you are; but let me tell you 
when I was your age I spent a season in New York just in 
this very part of the city. Of course the streets were not 
built up as they are now, but there were a number of just 
such houses as this one standing, but for the most part 
with fine gardens about them. I visited a lady named 
Tompkins. She was what we may call of the old school, 
and lived in a large house with a fine garden, and enter- 
tained a great deal of company. Everything was con- 
ducted on a very formal plan, for Mrs. Tompkins despised 
anything like unconventional^. I never ventured to 
speak to her without her addressing me first, nor do I ever 


224 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


remember anyone else doing so in my presence. Every 
morning at ten o’clock she sent for me and prepared the 
routine of the day. You may be sure that I was delighted 
when it included anything like a little amusement, above 
all things if there was a party in prospect, for then Mrs. 
Tompkins always saw that I was dressed beautifully, that 
1 had plenty of partners, and seemed to take a pride in my 
having a great deal of attention. She had an elderly maid- 
servant, one of the kind rarely seen nowadays, and with 
whom I had established a sort of understanding, whereby I 
managed a little freedom. That is to say, Mrs. Nesbitt, 
which was the woman’s name, obtained permission for 
me to go out walking occasionally, accompanied by her 
niece, who kept a small millinery store somewhere in the 
Bowery, which, by the way, was then a very fashionable 
resort. Mrs. Crashaw, the milliner’s name, would come 
for me about three o’clock on a fine day, requesting per- 
mission to take me out for an hour or two, and you may be 
sure I made the most of my time, chattering away like a 
young magpie and asking her all manner of questions. 
For some little time it had occurred to me that this Mrs. 
Crashaw had something weighty on her mind, and which 
she hardly dared to confide to me. At last, while w~e w 7 ere 
strolling through the square one afternoon, she looked at me 
suddenly and said, in a voice full of feeling and anxiety: 

“‘Miss Ellen, if you could do someone a very kind deed, 
I believe you would take a little trouble to do it.’ 

“‘Indeed I would,’ I answered quickly; ‘is it anything, 
Mrs. Crashaw, which I can do for you?’ 

“‘Well, yes and no,’ she answered slowly; c it’s for me, 
because I want it done; but it’s to help someone else, and 
you must make up your mind, if you begin it, you’ll carry 
it through.’ 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


225 


“Polly,” continued the old lady, “I can’t tell you what 
I felt just in that moment. Perhaps I had been reading 
too many of the old-fashioned novels to be found on Mrs. 
Tompkins’ bookshelves, but I was inspired by an idea 
that nothing would suit me better than to be concerned in 
some mystery which had a tinge of romance in it; so, al- 
though I was somewhat alarmed, I made haste to say that 
I would help her in any way possible. 

“‘All you have to do, then,’ said she, ‘is to come with 
me this afternoon to my house and witness something 
which has to take place. It will not detain you very long, 
and I assure you you will not get into any trouble.’ 

“Completely mystified, but delighted with the novelty 
before me, 1 very willingly went back to her store with 
her, waited while she made a slight change in her dress, 
and then followed her to the top of the house. She 
knocked at a door at the lower end of the hall. A voice 
said, “Come in,” and as we entered a tall, strikingly hand- 
some, military-looking man rose from the table where he 
had been writing, and stood looking at us for an instant 
in silence — or, rather, I should say, at me, for he scanned 
me from head to foot, and with a searching gaze, as though 
he was making up his mind whether I was trustworthy or 
not. 

“‘This young lady, sir,’ said Mrs. Crashaw, ‘is a perfect 
stranger to you, but is willing to oblige me and act as 
witness, and I assure you she is a trustworthy little lady.’ 

“‘She knows nothing of the matter?’ the gentleman in- 
quired in a deep, rather melancholy, voice. 

Mrs. Crashaw shook her head. 

“Nothing at all, sir,” she answered, and the gentleman 
continued, speaking to me in a very kind, almost fatherly, 
tone : 


15 


226 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


“Let me explain to you, then,” he said, laying his hand 
on my shoulder, “that I am about to be married this after- 
noon, but there are reasons why I wish the ceremony to be 
as private a one as possible. I’m starting on a long and 
somewhat dangerous journey, and before leaving wish to 
make a very dear young friend of mine secure of my 
name and fortune in case anything should happen to me, 
and also leave her in a position to come to me as my 
wife should she need my protection. Do not fear assist- 
ing us in this matter. I prefer having a perfect stranger 
to one who might know more of my circumstances and 
history.’ 

“Polly, I trembled from head to foot, and yet I did not 
for a moment feel that I could draw back. Mrs. Crasliaw 
left us for a few moments and I dared not even trust my- 
self to speak. The gentleman, whose name even I did not 
know 7 , stood by the mantle, leaning his head upon his 
hand, evidently lost in thought and forgetful of ray pres- 
ence, while you may be sure I was wild to know who and 
what and whence hg was, and w T hy on earth this marriage 
had to take place under such peculiar circumstances. 

“It seemed a long time, yet in reality I suppose it w r as 
not more than twenty minutes, when Mrs. Crashaw’s knock 
sounded on the door and she came in followed by a very 
young but sedate-looking clergyman and a young lady 
wearing a wide-brimmed hat, which nearly concealed her 
face. When, however, she did lift her head, 1 saw one of 
the sw r eetest, gentlest of countenances — not pretty, exactly, 
but exquisitely refined and intelligent. She was simply 
dressed, according to the then prevailing fashion, with a 
very short waist and straight skirt, just coming to the tips 
of her black slippers. A little black silk cape on her 
shoulders and a pair of long gloves which reached up to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


227 


her elbows completed the costume. When she removed 
her hat, at Mrs. Crashaw’s suggestion, it showed a pretty 
head, covered with short, fair curls. But what a mere 
child she looked, and how timidly her glance went from 
one to another. 

“The gentleman, whose name I had not yet heard, 
stepped forward, and taking her hand in his, said very 
earnestly: 

“‘Agnes, do not feel that you are obliged to marry me 
unless you wish to do so, but you know that otherwise, if 
I go away and you needed me at any time, it would be 
very hard for me to insist upon seeing you or sending for 
you unless I had some such legal claim and authority. If 
you are my wife, and you need me at any moment, you 
yourself could come to me. Moreover, your father cannot 
insist upon your marrying simply to please him.’ 

“‘I understand,’ said the young lady, looking up at him 
in the most trustful fashion, ‘and I think, Mr. Lee,’ she 
added, ‘you are very good to take so much trouble about 
me.’ 

“lie smiled, but very sadly. 

“‘It need never be a trouble, my dear,’ he said quietly, 
‘if it only turns out for your happiness.’ 

“As well as I remember, very little more passed, and you 
may be sure I was half frantic to understand what it all 
meant, but before the clock on the mantle had struck the 
next half hour the strange and binding ceremony had been 
performed, and I had caught quite distinctly the names, 
spoken clearly by the clergyman who read the service: 
Acmes Collins and John Lee. 

“The ceremony over, the clergyman seemed in nervous 
haste to depart. Mr. Lee handed him something in an 
envelope, there was a certificate made out and signed, 


228 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


and to my surprise the young lady began to tie on her hat 
and prepare also to depart. 

“I had never heard before of so silent, so dismal a wed- 
ding, and for my own part I felt inclined to cry. Mrs. 
Crashaw helped the little bride to tie on the hat and draw 
on her gloves again, after which she held out her hand to 
Mr. Lee, saying very quietly: 

“ ‘Good-by, sir, and I hope to hear good news of you 
soon, and I thank you very much for your kindness.’ 

“He took her hand, held it for a moment, and kissing 
her very gently on the brow, said gravely : 

“‘You need not thank me, dear; I have only done my 
duty, and some day we may try to make a very happy 
home together.’ 

“I did not know exactly what to do with myself when 
Mrs. Crashaw and the young lady left the room, so I said 
rather timidty that perhaps I had better go as well. I 
think Mr. Lee had almost forgotten my presence, for he 
started as I spoke, held out his hand, and with the same 
grave smile, said politely : 

“‘I cannot thank you sufficiently now, my dear young 
lady, but some day in the future I trust to do so,’ after 
which he held the door open with the greatest deference, 
while I passed out, returning to the little store in a most 
bewildered frame of mind. 

“I was sitting feeling half stupefied and half frightened 
when Mrs. Crashaw suddenly returned, her eyes red, as 
though she had been crying, and her whole manner show- 
ing nervous excitement. 

“‘Don’t you fret, Miss Ellen dear,’ she said anxiously; 
‘I wouldn’t have asked you to be a witness if any harm 
could come of it. No; it’s the best day’s work that could 
have been done; and some day you may hear more of it.’ 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


229 


“As you can imagine, I stood too much in awe of Mrs. 
Tompkins to reveal one word of what had passed, even 
had there not been my promise to restrain me; but it was 
a long time before I could stop thinking of the mysterious 
occurrence, about which, when I next saw her, 1 could 
not get Mrs. Crashaw even to talk. It was, I think, about 
six weeks later that, as I was sitting all alone in the library 
at Mrs. Tompkins’ house, there came a violent rat-tat-tat 
from the knocker on the hall door, and in a few moments 
a queer-looking old gentleman was ushered into the room 
by Mrs. Tompkins’ servant, who looked frightened and 
perplexed. The gentleman was talking very rapidly, and 
as he came in exclaimed over and over again, ‘Where is 
she? I say; where is she?’ 

“‘Here she is, sir,’ said the servant, pointing at me; 
‘this young lady is Miss Ellen Dyker.’ 

“‘Exactly,’ exclaimed the little old man, fixing his very 
black eyes fully upon me. ‘Then, Miss Dyker, will you 
have the kindness,’ he went on, ‘to put on your hat and 
coat and come with me at once? Oh, yes, you must,’ he 
continued; ‘I don’t intend to take no for an answer; I 
want you to go with me to a Mrs. Crashaw’s house 
directly. You are needed there.’ 

“Mrs. Tompkins was out, and I could only conclude that 
no harm could befall me if I went to see a person whom I 
knew as well as Mrs. Crashaw, although, of course, I felt 
certain that the visit was connected with the curious wed- 
ding ceremony I had witnessed. In any case, 1 dared not 
hesitate, for it would be much worse to have Mrs. Tomp- 
kins come in and discover what had taken place than to 
go even with a stranger to Mrs. Crashaw’s; and accord- 
ingly, only leaving word that I had gone to Mrs. Nesbitt’s 
niece’s house, I put on my things and followed my strange 


230 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


companion out in tlie street, where I found he had a coach 
in waiting. Once on the pavement he demanded abruptly 
the number of Mrs. Crashaw’s house, and repeating it after 
me to the coachman, ushered me into the coach politely 
and followed, not addressing a remark to me until we were 
close to the house, when he turned, saying, with a sarcas- 
tic smile : 

“‘I presume you wonder how I found you out; but you 
know that a marriage ceremony has to be registered, and 
perhaps you forgot when you acted as witness that your 
name and address were noted down.’ 

“I said nothing — what could I ? — indeed I was too terri- 
fied to talk, my only anxiety being to feel myself under 
Mrs. Crashaw’s protection. You may well imagine the 
good woman’s surprise — I had better call it consternation 
— when the coach drew up before her door and my singu- 
lar companion sprang out, offering me his hand as I 
alighted. She was in her shop-window at the moment, 
and at once went around to the side door leading to the 
dwelling part of the house, admitting us still with a blank 
look of astonishment on her face. 

“‘Now, then, madam,’ said the little old gentleman 
sharply, ‘1 have brought this young lady here to have it 
all out with you. I don’t need to tell you,’ he continued 
rapidly, ‘how I found out that my disobedient daughter 
had run away to get married; but clergymen sometimes,’ 
he said, with a sneer, ‘have a conscience too late in the 
day. As I understood this lady had been witness to the 
transaction I brought her here to face you with it. Oh, 
you needn’t be angry with her; I compelled her to come; 
but I want to hear the whole story from your lips and in 
her presence.’ 

“By this time we were in the little back parlor adjoining 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


231 


the store, and Mrs. Crashaw, who had recovered her self- 
possession, said gayly: “‘I presume I am speaking to 
General Collins?’ 

“‘Yes, madam,’ he snapped out. 

“‘It must have been the clergyman who gave you a hint 
of this,’ she went on, ‘and I can only say that your 
daughter and Mr. Lee were married in my house and in 
this young lady’s presence as well as my own nearly two 
months ago. Mr. Lee was obliged to leave town imme- 
diately, but he will send for his wife directly I notify him 
what has happened. He would not have thought of leaving 
her then but that imperative business called him away.’ 

“‘And did he know,’ demanded the old gentleman, ‘just 
what he lost, or rather what he had to share, by marrying 
her?’ 

“Mrs. Crashaw smiled. 

“‘He knew everything, sir,’ she said gravely, ‘and it 
was to protect her interests that he had the ceremony per- 
formed, and I shall at once let him know what has taken 
place. Allow me, sir,’ she continued, ‘to give you one 
piece of advice: Mr. Lee is not a man to be trifled with, 
and if you attempt to separate him from his wife you will 
only bring scandal and disgrace upon yourself.’ 

“I think, Polly, I never saw a human face betray such 
rage as the old man’s did at that moment; but it was evi- 
dent he saw argument or resistance would be of no use, 
and after a few moments’ silence he said, in a tone of 
forced politeness: 

“‘I do not propose to interfere further in the matter, but 
I warn you of one thing: you can take care of Mr. Lee’s 
bride until he claims her, and she shall come to you, 
madam, with just the clothes that she wears on her back, 
so be kind enough to prepare to receive her.’ 


232 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“‘Indeed I will,’ exclaimed Mrs. Crashaw; ‘and you 
can’t send the dear young lady to me,’ she added, ‘a moment 
too soon. What do you say to my going back with you 
in the coach and bringing her myself?’ 

“‘You can do as you like,’ he snarled; ‘but remember, 
once you take her I wash my hands of the whole affair.’ 

“They actually did go off in the coach together, Mrs. 
Crashaw bidding me wait until she returned. Well, Polly, 
to make a long story short, let me wind up by explaining 
to you what I heard later, just why all this had taken place. 
Miss Collins, it appeared, was to come into quite a for- 
tune if she married Mr. Lee before her nineteenth birth- 
day. If not, either by her refusal or the gentleman’s, the 
money was to be divided between Mr. Lee and her father. 
The strange conditions of the fortune had only come to 
Mr. Lee’s knowledge a short time before, and discovering 
that her father was bent on keeping them apart, he had 
sought every opportunity of meeting the girl, and at last, 
with Mrs. Crashaw’s assistance, planned the private mar- 
riage ceremony of which I had been a witness. He would, 
of course, have acknowledged it at once but that urgent 
business called him away that very day and hour, but fear- 
ing trouble during his absence for the girl, or that she 
should be kept from communication with him until after 
her birthday, he had insisted upon the ceremony’s taking 
place, as I have described.* 

“I was too much interested now in the whole affair to 
care what Mrs. Tompkins thought of m} r absence, and so 
was quite content to wait for Mrs. Crashaw’s return, while 
I was delighted to think of seeing the sweet little bride 
again. It was nearly two hours before the coach stopped 

* A true story related to the writer by the witness to the marriage 
in 1825. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


233 


at the door, and Mrs. Crashaw, evidently much excited, 
appeared with Mr. Lee’s bride following just behind her. 
Evidently she had packed up several things in a hurry, from 
the appearance of the bundles which were next brought 
into the house, and then Mrs. Crashaw nearly wept for 
joy, declaring all that they needed now was to let Mr. Lee 
know at once what had taken place.” 

Miss Dyker paused, and Polly, roused to the most intense 
interest in the little story of her youth, exclaimed eagerly: 

“Oh, Aunt Ellen, don’t stop there; hoAv did it turn 
out?” 

“Well, my dear, far more fortunately, 1 am glad to say, 
than such hasty affairs are apt to do. But, you see, the 
very fact of Mr. Lee’s insisting upon the marriage shows 
what an honorable man he was. There were no telegraphs 
in those days, and Agnes had to wait for a letter to reacli 
the distant town in which he was stopping, and then for 
him to come back by stage-coach instead of railway. But 
she did not return to her father’s house, staying on most 
contentedly with Mrs. Crashaw, who was delighted with 
the way everything had turned out, and even permitted 
me to make a clean breast of it to the dread Mrs. Tomp- 
kins, who was pleased to find everything satisfactory and 
the young bride a most eligible acquaintance. So far as I 
ever heard or saw, they were a very happy couple, and had 
no reason to regret what had taken place that day in Mrs. 
Crashaw ’s humble home, while, of course, the old man was 
compelled to resign his daughter’s inheritance to her hus- 
band and herself.” 

“Oh, Aunt Ellen!” exclaimed Polly delightedly; “I 
could listen to your stories forever; they are so much 
nicer than what you read, because they are real, and I shall 
always think of Mrs. Tompkins and Agnes and all of them 


234 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


when I walk about the old Square, and you won’t mind if 
I tell the story to some of the girls, will you?” 

Miss Dyker was well pleased to have interested Polly so 
thoroughly, and the young girl sprang up declaring Jean 
would never forgive her if she overlooked making her aunt 
a nice cup of afternoon tea. 

Miss Carripgton was found without difficulty, and seemed 
much pleased by Polly’s anxiety to attend to her aunt’s 
comforts, and instructed her just how and when to remove 
the cosey which she placed over the teapot, in which, as 
she explained, the “tea was brewing , not boiling .” 

Altogether Polly was beginning to feel that there were 
some pleasures in life which even the luxury of the Hill 
House had not afforded her, and Miss Dyker, who had 
apparently quite forgotten to be “lone and lorn,” declared 
that she and Polly would have to set up old maids’ hall to- 
gether if they could always have such a nice time. 


XXX IT. 


Dick was in unaccountably high spirits when he and 
Jean started out on their ramble together, and he declared 
that, after all, for freshening a fellow up there was nothing 
like being in the old metropolis. 

“We run it down, complain of it, despise it, and come 
back to it like a first love,” he said lightly, “and I won- 
der what would become of us if it ever comes to the com- 
plete stand-still which a great many wise people are saying 
is its fate. Paris is the only place,” he went on, “which 
ever gave me the same feeling of good-fellowship. I don’t 
doubt, however, from what I hear, that the life of a re- 
porter will knock some of the sentiment out of me.” 

“Then you must often come up to the Carringtons’,” 
said Jean, quite as ready to be enthusiastic as was her 
cousin. “You cannot imagine, Dick,” she went on, “how 
much I have learned since I have been in that house. It 
is what Mr. Carrington calls taking things at their own 
value. He is a delightful talker when you can get him 
interested. lie was telling me the other day that it took 
him a long time to sift the wheat from the chaff in affairs 
of this life. When he was very young he grasped at 
everything, he says — felt as though nothing was worth 
while unless he held the world, so to speak, in the hollow 
of his palm, and so he lost a great deal of good time and 
did not work at all in the right direction. Now, he says, 
he has made of life a perfectly simple, straightforward 
affair, in which he knows exactly what he wants independ- 
ent of others, and what he wants from them and what he 

235 


236 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


has to give, and if that is attained it matters nothing to 
him what the ‘madding crowds’ are doing or thinking.” 

“Well, upon my word!” exclaimed Dick, looking down 
at the girl’s uplifted face with an odd twinkle in his eyes; 
“there is just one course open to you, Jean — that is the 
platform. If you are going on at this rate, imbibing so 
many excellent ideas, you must take to lecturing, for you 
do it capitally.” 

But Jean was not a whit abashed. 

“You can talk as you like,” she remarked, “but I am 
growing wiser every day, and you know perfectly well the 
only lecture-room I ever care for will be my ‘ain fireside.’ 
I want a home of some kind where I can make a few peo- 
ple I care for happy.” 

Dick was silent for a few moments, and then he said, 
very quietly : 

“That sister of Carrington’s — the little one, I mean — 
looks as though she could infuse any amount of brightness 
into a home if she liked.” 

“Linda,” said Jean quickly; “yes, indeed. There is far 
more to the girl than you would guess at first. She’s a 
bit visionary, as Miss Kate says, like her brother, but full 
of talent, and so strong in her sympathies that 1 do not 
wonder at Miss Kate’s dreading the future before her. 
She tells me that she is a girl who could never bear much 
hard usage.” 

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Dick, “she ought never to 
get it. I don’t know,” he went on, “when in all my life 
I have been so taken with anybody. It’s rather a danger- 
ous business, however, for me to indulge just now in any 
feeling of the kind. I have made my mind up,” he went 
on, a fixed and grave expression settling upon his face, 
“not to allow myself any sentimental thoughts for a long 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


237 


time to come. It’s nice, Jeanie, old girl, to have you to 
talk to, so I don’t mind telling you that I had a few soft- 
hearted reflections over little Miss Linda; but, as I have 
said, I am not worth much if 1 drift into nonsense of that 
kind before I can earn my own living, and I do not 
doubt,” he went on, with a light laugh, “she would not 
give me a second thought.” 

Jean’s eyes were bent upon the pavement, so that Dick 
could not see the strange light which leaped into them. 
Suddenly she began to laugh. 

“May I enquire,” said Richard gravely, “what you see 
in what I have said for such extreme hilarity?” 

Jean suddenly tucked her hand into his arm. 

“I daren’t tell you now, Dick,” she exclaimed; “it was 
just something -which flashed across my mind and made me 
feel like a new being.” 

She laughed again almost unrestrainedly. 

“Is this only hysterical, Jean ? ” he demanded ; “because 
if we are going into any bric-a-brac stores I would prefer 
to see you calm down in the fresh air first.” 

“O Dick! Dick!” exclaimed the girl; “some day I 
will — I must — tell you all about it. I don’t think you will 
despise me; you are too good and kind. Moreover, you 
will be so grateful, no doubt, that you’ll be willing to think 
more of me than ever in your life before.” 

“1 could not bargain for that,” said Dick quietly, “be- 
cause you know, Jean, how fond I have alwa} r s been of 
you. I never can remember the time, it seems to me, 
when I some way hadn’t your interest at heart; and what- 
ever happened to me I felt some way as though it partly 
affected you.” 

Yes, Jean w T as grave enough by this time, and Dick 
went on : 


238 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“I believe it’s better than if we had actually been born 
brother and sister, because then the relationship is enforced 
and we feel impelled to be true to it or else unnatural in 
our appreciation of home ties. But the feeling when it 
comes, as it did to us, by choice is so much deeper and 
stronger. It is as though w r e chose the members of our 
own family just to suit ourselves. I cannot think,” he 
went on, “of a more ideal sister than you could be, and I’d 
like to be in your eyes the best brother who ever lived.” 

Jean looked at him, her sweet face full of tenderness. 

“And you are, Dick,” she said quietly, “so dear a 
brother to me that anything I can ever do to further your 
happiness will be an object always in my life. You don’t 
know how intensely interested I am in this new under- 
taking of yours. I shall Avant to see and hear every line 
you write ; I don’t care whether it’s about a fire or a steam- 
boat lauding, or anything else; so long as it’s part of your 
work it would interest me; and, by the way,” she added, 
‘‘Linda Carrington is quite excited over the idea that you 
are beginning what she calls a career.” 

“No,” said the young fellow, smiling with pleasure; 
“does she really care about it? I do not doubt she could 
give a fellow lots of inspiration if she chose to take the 
trouble.” 

“Talk it over with her, then,” said Jean, “when you 
come up this evening. I assure you you will find her full 
of interest and by no means a dull critic.” 

They had reached the corner by this time on which stood 
the old bric-d-brac store to which Carrington had directed 
them, and no sooner were they within it than it occurred 
to Dick in his new profession as too good a subject to 
lose, and forthwith, while Jean roamed about turning over 
a variety of objects, all more or less confused and dusty. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


239 


Dick talked to the old man in charge — a few trifling pur- 
chases were made, and once out upon the street again 
Dick exclaimed buoyantly: 

“Now, see here; I will do this thing up at once. I 
wonder,” he added, gazing about, “whether you could 
manage to get home alone, and I will go right off to my 
friend Berkmann’s room, where he says 1 can make use of 
anything I find. 1 will take it down to the Echo to-night 
and see what they have to say to it.” 

Jean was not only very certain that she could get 
home alone, but glad of an opportunity for a little quiet 
reflection. 

She watched Dick spring into a downward-bound car, 
and then turned her steps back slowly in the direction of 
Benton Place. 

What a revelation had come to the girl in that brief talk 
with her cousin ! The color deepened on her cheeks as she 
reflected how foolish she had been to suppose herself in 
any way tacitly pledged to him. It had weighed of late 
on her mind heavily and sadly, since she had become well 
aware that in her feeling for Dick was none of the deeper 
sentiment which should perfect and govern married life. 
Something altogether different had been aroused of late, 
sending to the winds every thought of worldly prosperity, 
social distinction, of the cheap achievement of a high 
place in the world to which the Dykers, by right of birth, 
belonged. Was it, Jean asked herself, that all along she 
had really had a mind and nature, sympathies and ambi- 
tions, which demanded only the simple things of life for 
their setting, or had she suddenly come unawares, by 
means of her poverty, upon a great, unalterable truth: 
that the only thing worth striving or caring for, so far as 
worldly matters are concerned, is what is intrinsically 


240 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


worthy — what of itself, divested of all externals, will be 
worth clinging to, caring for, and living np to. To be 
high in the esteem — the friendship — the companionship of 
such a man as Carrington, Jean had begun to feel was 
worth all the triumphs of endless ballrooms — all the 
glitter, the admiration, the applause of the world to which 
she supposed she belonged. To speak her inmost thoughts 
freely, knowing they would reach his deepest understand- 
ing and meet a complete response, was all the girl told her- 
self she could care for in any conversation — to have her 
little light-hearted jokes appreciated and responded to by 
him w r ould make a holiday of the dullest experience — last, 
but, to a girl of Jean’s calibre, by no means the least, what 
a never-ending source of happiness w 7 ould it be to her to 
bring into his hard-working, self-denying life such grace 
and sweetness as she fancied herself capable for his sake 
to diffuse. She had never guessed at half her own capac- 
ity for the simple details of home life until the last few 
weeks. Even her lofty 1 ' art ambition had dwindled into 
insignificance compared to this other feeling; and gravely 
self-restrained as Carrington unquestionably had been of 
late, Jane could not rid herself of a feeling that there was 
something in his eyes, his voice, the touch of his hand 
which, against his will, betrayed his own feeling. 

The one misery in it all had been her dread of hurting 
Dick, and now how clearly he had shown her that she 
could do him no harm by “deserting him,” to use the 
phrase she had employed against herself. No doubt his 
feeling about Linda was a merely passing fanc} r , yet it had 
sufficed to define their own relationship, and Jean found 
herself already wondering just what w r ould be the result of 
a love affair between her cousin and Carrington’s wdlful, 
charming little sister. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


241 


What a complete revolution all this would cause in the 
family history of the Dykers! Jean almost laughed aloud 
as she thought of the way in which it would strip the old 
family idea of its prim conventionality, and then her hand 
was on the door-bell and a moment later Linda was telling 
her that a gentleman was waiting in the parlor to see her. 

“And I have had to keep him entertained,” declared 
Linda, “for a half hour, he was so impatient.” 

Jean roused herself from her own abstraction of mind 
and opened the parlor door slowly. As she did so, a figure 
in the window rose and she found herself confronting a 
tall, distinguished looking stranger. 


16 


XXXV. 


Life at the Hill House, exciting and flattering as she 
still found it, had been for some time to Sarah Dalton 
charged by the restraint of Mrs. Malone’s illness — more 
than that, the woman’s evidently unhappy frame of mind. 
In Sarah’s presence she was ill at ease — yet watchful and 
anxious to keep the girl near her. In her absence Mrs. 
Malone drove even the long-suffering Mrs. Keyes to the 
very limits of her patience by cross-examining her on every 
point of the family history. 

“Whatever she’s up to,” Mrs. Keyes grumbled to her 
aunt in the kitchen, “I declare I can’t make out; but it’s 
back and forth and up and down and ask me this, that, and 
the other about every one of the name of Dyker till I’m 
that worried I don’t know how to speak.” 

“Oh, it’s because it’s such a change for her to find her- 
self in such a grand house,” Mrs. Knapp would answer; 
“she aint long for this world, anyway, and I wonder then 
what Sarah will be up to.” 

Only a feeling of pride, a lingering desire to hold her 
own, had kept Sarah during these days from showing how 
the dullness of her life affected her. The splendor of her 
surroundings, the fact that she had servants to attend her 
bidding, a fine carriage to drive out in, and every luxury 
money could buy palled upon the girl, since she had no 
audience to approve, applaud, or even envy her. She had 
given up all idea of much book learning. It merely both- 
ered and perplexed her, and Mrs. Holmes’ presence was 
only endured because she felt that to have a companion in 

242 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


243 


her train gave her the dignity and importance which she 
needed. 

She had expected to be overwhelmed by attentions by 
the various people w T ithin a few miles of the Hill House, 
who had certainly never thought of the distance or the 
time it would take to call there in the old days. But 
Sarah remained day after day in solitary state. With the 
exception of a very short and formal call from Mrs. Fraser 
and her two daughters, the clergyman of the parish and 
his wife, no one belonging to her new world had shown 
any desire to so much as pass the gate. Once, indeed, 
theie had occurred an incident the remembrance of which 
at any time sent the blood furiously into Sarah’s cheeks. 

It was a bright, soft afternoon, and Sarah, disinclined 
for a long w T alk, was rambling about the grounds when she 
saw a party — two ladies and a gentleman — entering the low 
gate. They walked in with an air of such perfect assur- 
ance that Sarah slowly followed them at a distance, decid- 
ing they were callers and that she could manage to get 
around by the side door almost as quickly as they would 
reach the main entrance. As she passed a clump of ever- 
greens where the drive curved up to the great door of the 
house, Sarah’s blood seemed to freeze within her for an 
instant as she heard one of the ladies say, with a light 
laugh, in answer to a remark of her companions: 

“Oh, no, my dear, of course we don’t want to see the girl 
who owns the house now and lives there; they say she is 
insufferably vulgar and ill-bred. All I shall do is to ask 
the housekeeper whether she will let me show you and 
Will some of the Colonel’s fine old pictures. We needn’t 
mention her at all.” 

And then Sarah had watched them go slowly up the steps 
of the house. 


244 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


In an instant slie had flown around to the side entrance 
and despatched Mrs. Keyes to open the door, telling her, 
no matter what was said by the visitors, to simply usher 
them into the drawing room and come back to her. Then 
she waited in the little boudoir, her heart beating almost 
to suffocation, but a smile of complete satisfaction light- 
ing her face. 

“Vulgar, am I?” she was saying to herself, as she 
shook out the rich folds of her silk and crepe dress, and 
surveyed her flushed face in the mirror. She had on her 
solitaire diamond earrings and the showiest of her brooches, 
and all her bangles, which sparkled and gleamed in the 
•firelight. “All right,” she continued, nodding to the 
figure in the glass; “we’ll see how much of my house 
they can poke into.” 

Mrs. Keyes, slow of step, was heard coming down the 
hall, and in a moment she entered, announcing that the 
ladies didn’t give their names but were waiting to know if 
they could look at some of the Colonel’s old pictures. 

Sarah stood still for an instant, deciding just how she 
could best answer the request and carry her own point, 
and then a sound of half-subdued laughter from the drawing 
room reached her. “I’ll see them myself,” she exclaimed, 
a deeper flush mounting to her face, and without giving 
Mrs. Keyes time to answer, she rushed away down the 
hall, trying to control her feelings while she opened the 
drawing-room door and confronted her uninvited guests. 

The ladies stared at the flushed, excited girl in her rich 
dress and glittering jewels, but Sarah gave them very 
little time to think. 

“I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen,” she said quickly, 
“you’ve made some kind of a mistake. My house aint a 
museum nor yet a picture gallery, and I’m not so vulgar 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


245 


and ill-bred that I wouldn’t know better than to come into 
anybody else’s place and say I didn’t need to mention the 
lady of the house at all. Oh, 1 don’t care,” she went on, 
gaining courage as she observed the looks which passed 
between the party, “I aint so hard up for visitors as to 
care; only you might as well know I was close by when I 
heard you talking about me out in the grounds. Now, if 
you’ve got anything worth looking at in your house, you 
needn’t be afraid that Sarah Dalton ’ll ever ring the bell 
and ask the privilege of looking at it.” 

To describe the effect of this speech upon her uninvited 
guests would be impossible — they could scarcely do it later 
themselves — but needless to say the story went around in 
the county, and if the incident left poor Sarah more hope- 
lessly alone than before, she was thankful to have spoken 
her mind once for all, and at the same time it afforded 
unlimited amusement in the circles where the ladies and 
gentlemen who had visited the Hill House so unceremoni- 
ously moved. Mrs. Holmes had heard of it but dared not 
remonstrate with her pupil, and indeed, often as the girl 
irritated her by her overbearing ways and profound igno- 
rance, she could not help a feeling of pity for the peculi- 
arly lonely position in which the girl was placed. 

Dr. Fraser’s visits, unless to attend upon Mrs. Malone, 
were limited to merely matters of ceremony. Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie seldom entered the house, nor did Sarah trouble the 
cottage, and so the days dragged their length along until 
one windy twilight when, sitting alone with her aunt, 
Sarah observed a peculiar change in the sick woman’s face. 
It must have come very suddenly, the girl thought, since 
she certainly had not remarked it an hour before, and the 
strained, anxious expression, habitual now, was deepened 
in Mrs. Malone’s sunken eyes. 


246 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“Aint yon feeling quite so well, Aunt ’Tilda?” de- 
manded Sarah, coming up to the sofa on which her aunt 
was lying. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” said Mrs. Malone, “and 
seems to me, Sarah, on windy nights all the lonesome kind 
of things come up to a person’s mind.” 

“Why, what you lonesome about now?” said Sarah 
quickly. “Haven’t you got everything you want, and 
aint I going to send down for Mikey and Aggie to spend 
the day to-morrow?” 

“I know,” fretted her aunt, “but ’taint that so much.” 
She glanced over to the dressing table on which her pre- 
cious rosewood box, the key of which she always kept 
under the pillow, was standing. “1 think,” she went on 
querulously, “if you’ll leave that little box of mine over 
here when you go down to supper, there’s a few things in 
it I’ll just look over.” 

It was not the first time that her aunt, w T hen left alone, 
had occupied herself in the same fashion; but whatever the 
box might contain Sarah had never seen its contents, nor, 
indeed, had she cared particularly to examine into it, sup- 
posing it to be the receptacle of some merely useless 
mementos of her aunt’s youth. But now, for some reason, 
it flashed across the girl’s mind that the box might contain 
something more actually important than she had supposed. 
Diplomacy and indeed deceit were entirely out of Sarah’s 
line, and not for an instant did it occur to her to obtain 
access to the box by anything but perfectly fair means. 
However, needless to say that, having made up her mind 
to know what the box held, it was not likely Sarah would 
allow her plan to be defeated. 

“I’ll give you the box of course,” the girl said, stand- 
ing up, “but I’ll tell you now, right now and here, Aunt 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


247 


’Tilda, I mean to know what there is in it. You’ve got 
something hidden there you’re awfully afraid I’ll find out, 
and if you don’t tell me of yourself I warn you I’ll open it 
and there ’ll be trouble.” 

It had begun to rain and Sarah deliberately, when she 
had finished speaking, walked over to the windows, where 
she drew the heavy curtains closer together, then stirred 
the fire into a brighter blaze, lighted the candles on the 
chimney-piece, giving her aunt time for reflection. 

“ What’s it all to you, Sarah?” Mrs. Malone said, with 
a little whimper. “Haven’t I always acted for your good? 
What’s the use of your wanting to know everything?” 

“I aint talking about everything,” said Sarah reso- 
lutely, and taking the little box in her hands; “I’m just 
speaking of what’s in here, and I’ve given you fair warn- 
ing. I don’t want to be cross with you,” she added, soft- 
ening a little at sight of her aunt’s wasted face and tearful 
eyes; “only you know me when I’ve made up my mind. 
How do we any of us know,” the girl added with sudden 
fervor, “whether we mightn’t be took right all on a sud- 
den, and then if we’d left anything behind we’d wanted to 
say, how would we feel when we was dumb?” 

It was a rude form of theology, but no minister of the 
Gospel could have put forth the same argument with better 
effect, and Mrs. Malone’s spirit quailed. 

“There you go, talking about dying again,” she began; 
but Sarah only shook her head. 

“You can do as you see fit,” she answered, “but I tell 
you, Aunt ’Tilda, so will I.” 

She stood leaning up against the chimney-piece, a tall, 
resolute young figure, in her rich dress and shining jewels, 
waiting for the full effect of her words upon her aunt, but 
with a full determination that she would carry her point 


243 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


no matter what it cost her. And to do the girl credit, a 
fear like a cold knife had darted across her heart lest the 
little box contained bad news for her and her enviable 
position. 

“If 1 show it all to you,” said Mrs. Malone slowly, and 
speaking in an awe-struck kind of whisper, “will you swear 
to me, Sarah Dalton, you’ll never tell?” 

“No, I won’t,” declared Sarah promptly; “do you take 
me for a perfect fool? I’ll say this much, though : I won’t 
do anything that ’ll make any trouble for you, I promise 
you that.” 

“Then I’ll tell you what you’ll do,” said Mrs. Malone, 
feeling apparently entirely relieved by this; “you may put 
the box away — there’s the key, and by and by you can just 
make it all out for yourself. 

Sarah only half realized that her aunt considered her 
bound by a more definite promise then she had made, re- 
placed the box, and fearing to have Mrs. Malone change 
her mind, rang the bell quickly, desiring Mrs. Keyes to 
bring up the invalid’s supper as soon as possible. She 
contrived quickly to take the box in her hands, and follow- 
ing Mrs. Keyes into the hall, told her to remain w T ith Mrs. 
Malone as soon as she had ordered the supper until she 
sent for her. 

The girl had no idea just what was her governing im- 
pulse of anxiety, curiosity, and fear, as she sped along the 
hall and into her own room, where, with nervous fingers, 
she lighted the candles and then seated herself on the 
great rug in the glow of the fire, one of the candles at 
her side, while she opened the all-important and secret 
treasure. 


The secret out at last. 










♦ 


































* 





• 







XXXVI. 


How long Sarah remained crouched in the firelight of 
her room, the contents of the box in disorder on the rug 
beside her, she could never tell. She was conscious 
in a vague, dull fashion of the way in which the rain 
lashed the window-panes, of how the fir trees outside 
seemed to bend and moan, but of little more besides her 
own nearly desperate thoughts the girl was not in the least 
aware. She heard Mrs. Holmes’ voice at the door asking 
her if she was not coming down to supper, and she an- 
swered Xo, not to wait for her, in a dull, constrained tone, 
entirely different from her own, and then mechanically she 
gathered up the papers and the pictures which she had 
found, and began slowly putting them back in their former 
receptacle. It seemed to the girl as though a year might 
have passed since she had come into the room, and she 
stood up holding her hands to her head wondering if she 
was indeed in her right senses, or if the testimony of her 
own eyes and understanding could have been at fault. 
But no, there was no danger, or rather no hope, of that. 
Ignorant the girl might be in many ways, and yet no 
lawyer could have been keener witted or shrewder on some 
points than was Sarah Dalton, and she did not deceive her- 
self in the slightest as to what the result of her discovery 
might be. It had crushed and stunned her for an instant. 
She felt as though someone had dealt her a physical blow, 
and yet it had not so far occurred to her that there was 
any loophole of escape from the story the little box would 
have to tell. She must go back to her aunt of course, and 

- 249 


250 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


talk about it — there was some point which even the papers 
and pictures did not make clear, and Mrs. Malone only 
could enlighten her. The girl moved slowly toward the 
door, not in the least intimidated by the thought of dis- 
cussing this question with the aunt, but only fearing to 
excite her, and no sooner was she in the hall than Mrs. 
Keyes appeared holding her linger up to her lip. 

“She’s asleep, poor dear,” said the woman, “and she 
seems almost flighty in her head, Miss Sarah, so I do 
hope she’ll get a little quiet rest. Lor’, how white 
you do look — just as if you’d seen a ghost,” the woman 
continued. 

Sarah gave a queer laugh. “Well, perhaps I have,” she 
said shortly; “there’s more’u one kind of a ghost, aint 
there?” 

What should she do? Inaction to Sarah, when there 
was something to be accomplished, was unendurable. She 
dared not disturb her aunt, and of course it would not do 
to gossip on such a question with Mrs. Keyes. And then 
suddenly it flashed across Sarah’s mind how Sandy would 
feel when he heard of this, and if she chose he might hear 
of it at once, since she knew that he was expected that 
evening at the cottage, and would probably make an early 
call upon her in the morning. The girl was tolerably cer- 
tain as to what he would advise. She could quite imagine 
him taking the box from her hands and flinging it, con- 
tents and all, into the fire, but against that, of course, she 
could be on her guard, and the sooner he knew of her 
discovery the better. Had he thought Sarah by any 
chance suspected the real state of affairs? Could it be 
that her aunt’s anxiety to see him w 7 as the result of having 
given him, even in part, her confidence? To deliberate 
long over anything Avas impossible to the girl, and she 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


251 


decided suddenly to send over to the cottage, find out if 
he was there, and summon him at once. The answer came 
back quickly enough even to satisfy Sarah, who was im- 
patiently walking up and down the main hall of the house, 
thinking as she had never thought before. Sandy had 
gone to Albany, but would return the next day, when Mrs. 
Mackenzie was sure he would call at the Hill House. 
What, then, did there seem left for her to do? Suddenly 
one person, whom she thoroughly believed in, in spite of 
all petty jealousies and heart-burnings, rose to Sarah’s 
mind: Jean Gamier; if she could see her, talk it all over 
with her, Sarah felt very certain that she would at least 
receive good advice and gentle treatment. She would 
tell Mrs. Mackenzie something of it at least, and leave 
her to explain matters to her guardian, who was absent 
from Thornton at the time, but of one thing Sarah was 
determined not to be balked. She would act honestly and 
squarely in the matter, simply because it was not in her 
nature to do otherwise, but she would not give any other 
human being a bit of the credit or glory which might 
attach to the performance of so heroic an act as she con- 
templated. Sarah’s spirits rose with a bound as this 
thought occurred to her — as she saw herself the heroine of 
an important thrilling occasion. Who would despise or 
look down upon her then? What was there to prevent 
her throwing the poor little old box and all it contained 
into the flames of the hall fire, before which she had paused 
to conclude her important reflections? She could leave her 
aunt well cared for, take Mrs. Holmes with her if neces- 
sary as a guide in what would be a wilderness to her, and 
go on to New York herself by the first morning train. 
She then would be the one in whose hands everything would 
rest, to whom everyone would look as their good genius, 


252 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


and who would dare to scorn her after that? And yet as 
the girl glanced about the grand old entrance hall, with 
its beautiful curving staircase, its suggestion of all that 
meant means and wealth and luxury in life, her heart fell, 
remembering that this journey might mean a farewell to 
it all for her. Could it be that she was standing there 
really for the last time as mistress of the Hill House? She 
was conscious of the elegance of her own attire, her spark- 
ling jewels, the soft laces at her neck and wrists. How 
would it be to give them all up and go back to calico and 
homespun once more? An angry, rebellious look sprang 
into the girl’s face at the thought, but she confronted it 
only as a misery, not — thank Heaven — as a temptation. 
Whatever of downright honesty, fearlessness, and ingrain 
love of justice there had been in her mother’s far back 
New England ancestry certainly warmed' the veins of her 
daughter and made it impossible for her to blink matters 
in a question of actual right and wrong. Selfish, grasp- 
ing and overbearing she might be, or, in the new life she 
had been leading, have become; but dishonest by word 
or look or act — never. 

Having come to certain rapid conclusions, Sarah’s mind 
went further ahead, and she decided to start by as early a 
train as possible to New York, taking Mrs. Holmes with 
her, and leaving her aunt safely enough in the care of Mrs. 
Keyes and the doctor. 

Still holding the little box securety under her arm, 
Sarah ran upstairs to her own room, whose dainty look of 
elegance and comfort impressed her suddenly anew. But 
she gave herself no time for reflection. Opening the 
drawer of her desk, she locked the box securely in it, and 
then went away in search of Mrs. Holmes. It was still 
raining furiously, but Sarah’s mind was definitely made up, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


253 


so that even if it stormed on the morrow she was deter- 
mined not to be hindered in her enterprise. 

One thing, however, she would give herself the satisfac- 
tion of doing before she went to sleep, and accordingly she 
seated herself before her desk and after two or three efforts 
contrived to write tolerably well the following note to her 
lawyer : 

“Mr. Sandy Mackenzie: 

“lam going to New York to attend to my own business 
there, and you had better stay here and look after things 
while I am gone. I don’t know how much you know of 
what I have found out, but if you did know about it and 
kept it back, then the sooner you and me are parted the 
better it will be for you. 1 guess that’s all I need say, 
except that I shall go to see Jean Gamier when 1 get 
there.” 

And this effusion, without further formula, she signed, 
“Sarah Dalton.” 

Putting it into an envelope, which she addressed, to be 
given on the morrow into Mrs. Mackenzie’s safest keeping, 
Sarah felt as if she had decided this difficult matter in a 
masterly way, and spent the next hour in packing a small 
bag with such necessaries as she would need for the trip, it 
not having as yet occurred to her that Mrs. Holmes would 
think of offering any opposition to her plan, but when her 
own bag was packed she remembered that she ought to give 
her companion time to make similar preparations for her- 
self. 


XXXVII. 


When Jean Gamier found herself in the presence of her 
strange visitor she very quickly recovered her self-posses- 
sion as he handed her his card and said, in an agreeable 
voice : 

“Although a stranger to you, Miss Gamier, yet I believe 
we have some interest sufficiently in common to warrant 
my calling upon you.” 

As Jean, smiling politely, but entirely mystified, took 
the nearest chair, Mr. Morris, her visitor, seated himself, 
and in his leisurely, well-modulated voice went'on : 

“I called owing to a visit I paid yesterday to Thornton 
where I went to make certain enquiries of the utmost 
importance to members of my own famity. I could find no 
one at the Hill House who could give me any information; 
the” — he paused, with a slight smile — “young lady of the 
house, they informed me, had started with her governess 
or duenna, some person of the kind, for New York, and I 
was directed to the house of a Mrs. Mackenzie.” 

As he paused Jean smiled and said quietly: 

“Our dearest friend. Did you see her, sir?” 

“Yes, indeed,” said the visitor, “and a most delightful 
woman I found her; but of course I had to cut my visit 
short. She directed me where to find you and gave me a 
little insight into certain matters, but insisted that it was 
not her place to talk over her friends’ affairs without their 
permission. You may think I am a longtime,” he went on, 
“in coming to the point, but — I do not want to appear abrupt 
in what is a somewhat painful duty to perform, although so 

254 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


255 


far as I can see it cannot hurt your interests, and will, I 
hope, only please you. It appears there has been some 
mistake in the identity of the young person who has taken 
possession of the Dyker estate. I have not the proofs at 
hand which I need, nor do I know at all where to put my 
hand upon them; but of one thing I am certain. Your 
Aunt, Sarah Dyker, died in the house of my brother, 
Andrew Morris, in Seventh Street, in this city, and his 
wife, who had just lost her own child, adopted the week- 
old baby young Mrs. Dalton left. It appears from what 
my sister-in-law at this late date has confided to me that 
the poor young woman had run away from her husband, 
who neglected her shamefully, and who had even then 
deserted her. Her one fear in dying seemed to be that the 
father of her child would ever get possession of it, and 
so in giving the baby to Mrs. Morris for her own she 
begged of her never to let anyone belonging to her know 
of its existence. Mrs. Morris is under the impression, 
however, that old Colonel Dyker, Sarah’s father, did know 
of it, but dreaded to have Dalton or anyone belonging to 
him on his hands. However that may be, when, a month 
later, my brother Andrew died Mrs. Morris determined to 
keep the child, giving out that it was her own. I had seen 
nothing of them for two or three years, and was confined to 
my bed with a severe illness for several weeks after my 
brother’s death, so that when I next heard from the widow 
she had moved into an entirely different neighborhood, 
where the child passed, as she has done ever since, as her 
own; and I may say,” continued Mr. Morris, “that no 
mother in my circle of acquaintances could have done 
better by any of her offspring than my sister-in-law has by 
this child of her adoption.” 

Jean listened almost stupefied by the importance of what 


256 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


she bad beard, and yet in some way there was a thrill of 
relief as she thought of Sarah Dalton and her usurpation 
of the old family home. 

“Do you mean to say, sir,” she asked in a low, anxious 
tone of voice, “that your — niece is really the child of my 
Aunt Sarah and her husband Philip Dalton?” 

“Exactly,” said the gentleman, smiling. “You may be 
very certain that I sifted every proof carefully before com- 
ing up here. The only missing part of the evidence is in 
certain letters, trinkets, etc., which Mrs. Morris is sure 
Dalton took away with him, but she is ready at any time 
to swear to the identity of the girl, which she has only con- 
cealed so far from fear of losing her. Lately it had 
occurred to her, from little things she had heard, that she 
had no right to defraud her of her just inheritance, and so 
she very wisely consulted me. As you may imagine, I was 
completely stunned by the news, but of course I came on 
at once. I only arrived on the boat yesterday morning, 
and directly I had heard my sister’s story and obtained 
from her the address, which she had long kept hidden 
away, of the Hill House in Thornton, I took the next 
train there, found, as I tell you, that Miss Dalton had 
started for New York, whereupon I consulted Mrs. 
Mackenzie.” 

“This is most extraordinary,” exclaimed Jean, pro- 
foundly moved. “Have you any objection, sir,” she said 
quickly, “to my asking our friend, Mr. Carrington, to 
consult with us? My cousin, Dick Appleton, is — I can 
scarcely say where at present, probably reporting some 
fire, if there is one, as he tells me that will be his kind of 
work for a while on the Echo , and I feel as if I wanted 
someone to take counsel with.” 

“By all means,” said Mr. Morris, rising, as did Jean; 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


257 


“you are quite right. In these matters it is always well 
to consult a trustworthy friend.” 

Jean felt as if everything was in a whirl about her as 
she went down the hall and knocked lightly upon the door 
of Carrington’s studio. He was alone when she entered, 
and with his arm on the chimney-piece, but apparently 
lost in thought. He smiled, however, directly Jean made 
her appearance. 

“I have just heard the most extraordinary piece of 
news,” said the girl quickly, “and I fear to do or say any- 
thing in the matter without advice. Will you, Mr. Car- 
rington, come with me to the parlor and hear all that this 
gentleman from Boston has to say. No,” she added sud- 
denly, with a quick change of expression, “better still, 
leave me here and go and talk to him yourself. You and 
he can come all the more quickly to an understanding, 
and — I would like to be alone for a few moments and think 
it over.” 

“As you like,” said Carrington slowly; but he paused 
and looked down upon the girl with infinite tenderness in 
his expression. “Before I go I must — I will say one little 
word to you. He held out his hand, and involuntarily 
Jean placed her own trembling little fingers within it. 
“Jean,” he went on quickly, not conscious of the way in 
which he pressed the hand in his keeping, “if this means 
any trouble for you ahead I want to tell you that my life 
— anything that I have or can do for you, is at your service. 
Don’t answer, my child, and don’t look so frightened,” he 
went on, with a half-sad smile, as he saw the bewildered 
expression which flitted across Jean’s face, and the color 
which dyed it scarlet. “I am not asking you to even 
answer me, but before I hear any of the perhaps bad news 
this man has to bring I want you to understand how and 
17 


258 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


when and where you can command me. I have no thought 
in life,” he added in a low voice, tense with feeling, and 
which thrilled Jean to the depths of her heart, “apart from 
you and your interests in anything.” 

A moment later and she was alone, conscious in the 
midst of all her bewilderment of a wild, unreasoning, be- 
wildering joy. She could not, did not, for an instant 
doubt what Carrington had meant by what he said, and 
one look, the last, into his line, strong face had been 
enough for her to see, to know, that he loved her. What 
had she done or been, the girl asked herself, to deserve it? 
Not a thought of any of the sterner facts of life, its exter- 
nals or conventionalities, robbed her of the exquisite joy 
of that moment. She had known what it was to be rich, 
admired, and indulged, and she had known of late what it 
was to be poor, anxious, and depressed over the actual need 
of earning money for those dear to her; but of actual 
heaven-given content Jean felt she had known nothing 
until that moment. Presently she rose and moved about 
the room with a strange, delightful sense of ownership in 
its humblest appointments. Was it indeed to be her privi- 
lege to share this simple but ennobling life of toil and 
high purpose with such a man as Carrington? And then 
a great wave of recollection and gratitude rushed across 
her heart. IIow could she ever be thankful enough for what 
had once seemed the hardest stroke of fate ? How much she 
would have missed had she simply glided from one period 
of luxurious inactivity at the Hill House into another, 
marked, perhaps, by some responsibility, but strengthened 
by none of those elements which had developed her own 
character, she hoped, and certainly brought her to the 
gates of an earthly paradise. 


XXXVIII. 


Jeaist could not tell bow long she sat waiting for Car- 
rington’s return, so engrossing were her new thoughts, but 
presently his step sounded and she sprang up to meet 
him as he entered, the color rushing into her cheeks, while 
lie said quickly : 

“Jean, this gentleman has certainly brought a most 
astonishing piece of news, and if what he says is true, then 
the destinies of the Hill House are once more changed. 
He has come directly from his sister-in-law’s house, and 
now suggests that you either accompany him there, or 
perhaps I can go for you, and see the lady who can un- 
ravel the last of the tangle.” 

“Will you — can you go?” said Jean eagerly. “It will 
be so much better, and then I can be here to console Aunt 
Ellen, or explain it all to her, if need be.” 

“It is for you to decide,” said Carrington quickly; “in 

any case I will come back as soon as possible, and ” 

He stood still a moment, gazing down at the slender young 
figure before him, and then said impulsively, holding out 
both his hands: 

“Jean, of what use is there for me to hesitate now that 
I have read the message of your eyes and face? Perhaps 
if I had not seen perplexity so near you I would not have 
dared to speak; but will you then give me the right that 
I have asked for ?” 

The girl held her hand out, laying it quietly in his. 

“You have every right,” she said in a low voice, “over 
all my future, if you care to take it.” 

259 


2G0 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


And then Jean was in a strange way conscious that for 
an instant Carrington had held her in his arms, that his 
lips had touched hers, and then once more she found 
herself alone. 

It was, Jean knew, a betrothal, yet how suddenly, how 
strangely, it had seemed to have come about. Well she 
knew that hours of discussion would have brought them to 
no clearer an understanding of the simple, wonderful fact 
of their feeling for each other, yet she was as well aware 
that but for this emergency Carrington would have hesi- 
tated to speak — to have asked her to share the simple, 
hard-working life which of necessity was his. And how 
could she be sufficiently grateful, thought Jean, for what 
had forced them into an understanding of their mutual 
need of each other? It was, as she knew, the discovery 
of her own feeling which had made her so overjoyed on 
finding herself free from any duty toward Dick Appleton, 
and now if only he could see his way and Linda hers to- 
ward a happiness anything like her own, what a fairy-tale 
their lives might turn into! She longed to run upstairs 
to Miss Dyker with her precious, wonderful piece of intelli- 
gence, and yet feared to do so until Carrington’s return. 
Still it would be hard to go about the usual preparations 
for their supper as though nothing out of the ordinary had 
occurred, and it was a relief when Polly’s quick step and 
gay voice sounded, a knock at the studio door followed, 
and her cousin came into the room. There could certainly 
be no harm whatever in telling the girl of the strange 
gentleman’s visit, and binding her over to keep all news 
of it from Miss Dyker, at least until Carrington’s return. 

If Jean had expected a sensation she was certainly not 
disappointed in the way Polly received her astonishing 
piece of news. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


261 


“Then that girl we saw at the library,” she exclaimed, 
“is somebody after all, and O Jean, although it won’t 
make us any better off, I suppose, what a difference it will 
make at the Hill House. What, then, will become of that 
Sarah Dalton?” 

“It’s all too deep for me as yet,” said Jean, with a light 
laugh ; “anyway, Polly, we’ve served a valuable apprentice- 
ship and have begun to learn how to take care of our- 
selves.” 

Polly sighed. 

“I guess you wouldn’t say that, Jean,” she remarked, 
“if you had to struggle over compound fractions the way 
I do. I’d like to know what kind of a living I could earn 
just yet awhile. Miss Nichols told me only to-day that 
she shouldn’t wonder if I could graduate in about eight 
years. Hopeful, isn’t it?” 

“Never mind,” exclaimed Jean, with her gayest laugh. 
“I’m so happy, Polly, that I feel ready to be good to all 
the world. I never thought that life could be so beauti- 
ful, beautiful /” 

Polly stared an instant in silence. 

“May I enquire,” she said gravely, “whether you are 
getting the brain fever? I declare, it looks like it.” 

“Perhaps J am,” laughed Jean, “but if so I hope it will 
last all my life long.” 

“Well I believe you are daft, and no mistake,” said 
Polly, now becoming serious. “You can’t have gone 
crazy suddenly just on account of that gentleman’s news. 
Jean,” she exclaimed, comipg up to her cousin and catch- 
ing her hand while she looked down severely into Jean’s 
sweet, flushed face, “look up at me this instant and tell me 
what’s the matter, for if you don’t I shall guess, and then 
I’ll never forgive you.” 


262 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


The color had quite faded away now from the face 
Jean lifted to her younger cousin, but in her expression 
was something which made it lovelier than Polly had ever 
seen it before. 

“I will not let you guess,” she said gently, “for, my 
dear little cousin, I would rather tell you my wonder- 
ful piece of fortune myself. Mr. Carrington has asked 
me to marry him and some day I am going to be his 
wife.” 

For an instant Polly stood still, a feeling of being shut 
out once more coming over her; but the finer, more 
generous part of the girl’s nature quickly asserted itself, 
and as usual her practical side of a question was upper- 
most. 

“O Jean!” she exclaimed, kissing her cousin affection- 
ately, “of course he’s perfectly grand, and I hope every- 
thing will go well; but you know, my dear, you’ll have to 
wait as long before you’re married as I will to graduate, I 
expect.” 

“Never mind,” retorted Jean; “then we can just keep 
on being engaged; and oh, Polly dear, you must promise 
me one thing: you are the first person w’ho has heard of 
it, and remember not a word to anyone until — Mr. Car- 
rington and I have really decided it.” 

“Are you always going to keep on calling him Mr. Car- 
rington,” said Polly, w T itli a sniff. 

Jean laughed. 

“Well, I’ve only had the right to do anything else for 
about two hours,” she answered. 

And then suddenly the interesting conference between 
the cousins was interrupted, and once more on this won- 
derful day of events Jean was summoned to the parlor, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


263 


Polly following her, feeling that she had now the right to 
hear and see all that might be going on. 

The gas had been lighted and it shone full down upon 
two anxious, eager-looking figures, in whom Jean and her 
cousin recognized, at once Sarah Dalton and her companion, 
Mrs. Holmes. 


XXXIX. 


If for an instant Sarah’s former assumption of indepen- 
dence in the presence of her rival was resumed, Jean’s 
very sweet and gentle way of greeting her softened the 
girl at once. Moreover, she had come with a story to tell 
and wa3 anxious to plunge into it. 

“Can we sit right here and talk?” demanded Sarah, 
glancing round the little parlor; “because it’s on business, 
and 1 don’t want anybody else coming in.” 

“No one will disturb us,” said Jean quickly; “I hope,” 
she added, “that you are not in any trouble, Miss Dalton.” 

“Well, I am and I amn’t,” said Sarah, who in obedience 
to a suggestion from Jean had laid aside her wraps. “But 
1 guess when you hear all I have to say, Miss Gamier, 
you’ll think I’m a pretty good sort after all. I brought 
Mrs. Holmes right along with me, you see,” she went on, 
“because I didn’t want to make any mistake hunting you 
up, and I felt there wasn’t an hour to lose.” 

Sarah did not add that she hardly dared trust herself to 
let go the high pressure of morality in the matter which 
she had reached, but she felt now that she was certainly 
doing a very creditable thing. 

“You see,” she went on, “I found out just by an acci- ' 
dent that aunt must have made a kind of a mistake.” She 
blushed hotly for an instant, and then continued: “Aunt’s 
been very sick, and perhaps she got things rather mixed up. 
Anyhow that Sandy Mackenzie was a good deal to blame. 
You see, I came into the possession of the Bill House 
because my father was Philip Dalton, and aunt and every- 

264 




















































































. 






































/ 






















































































•' • 



































Sarah “rights herself” at last 




A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


265 


body else said as how my mother was his wife, Sarah 
Dyker. That was it, wasn’t it? Well, now it turns out 
that mj 7- father and mother were married after his first 
wife died, see? Oh, I’ve got it all straight as a string; 
good as any lawyer could tell it to you. And, you see, 
lather didn’t die, from all I’ve heard, worth his salt, so — • 
there it is.” 

The girl was evidently in a highly nervous state, and 
when she had finished this blunt but absolutely truthful 
statement she Avalked over to the window, pressed her 
hands against the pane of glass, trying vainly to repress a 
burst of weeping. 

Jean sprang to her feet. Suddenly she realized all that 
it meant, and more than that, the intense integrity of 
the girl who had voluntarily come forward to resign her 
claim. 

She sprang to her feet, and going over to the tremulous, 
weeping figure, put her arm about Sarah’s waist. 

“Sarah,” she exclaimed eagerly, “I wonder if you 
know what a fine girl you are. Don’t cry, my dear; you 
have acted just splendidly.” 

“That’s what I say,” exclaimed Mrs. Holmes, for once 
in her experience thoroughly proud of her pupil. “I’ve 
been telling her that ever since we started.” 

Sarah still wept, but Jean’s words were music in her ears. 
No one among those Dykers would ever look down upon 
her again, and how she intended to make Sandy Mackenzie 
crawl! 

“I don’t see what else there was to do,” said Sarah, 
wiping her eyes on her very elegant pocket-handkerchief, 
and allowing Jean to draw her over toward a little sofa, 
where she seated herself beside her. “As soon as I found 
out for sure 1 could hardly get here quick enough. It ’ll be 


266 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


awfully hard on aunt,” she continued sorrowfully; “ she’s 
so weak and suffering.” 

“But Sarah, my dear,” said Jean quickly, “I hardly 
think this young girl who w r e hear is to come into the 
property — — ” 

Sarah interrupted her, giving her a little push. 

“Why, what young girl?” she enquired. “Who you 
talking about now?” 

Jean made haste to relate what had passed, and men- 
tioned the fact that Mr. Morris had called at the Hill 
House, only to find her gone. 

“Well, if that doesn’t beat everything,” exclaimed 
Sarah, beguiled into a little laugh; “and isn’t that just 
my luck? For, you see, if I hadn’t come of myself I’d 
have had to, anyhow.” 

“Exactly,” returned Jean; “and now you have the 
credit, you see, of having done the right thing all of your 
own accord. Of course 1 don’t know,” she went on, 
“how it will all end; but we will hear very soon, for our 
friend here, Mr. Carrington, has gone over to see the girl 
who will step into your shoes.” 

“W T ell, all I can say,” said Sarah with a touch of her 
old spirit of fun, “is that I hope they’ll fit her better than 
they did me, for I had all the bother of being a fine lady 
and none of the fun.” 

Polly had been so silent during this really exciting con- 
ference that Jean began to feel anxious as to what might 
be passing through her brain, when suddenly that young 
person said in her most dignified and autocratic manner: 

“Do you know, Jean, that I think we are doing very 
wrong to talk so much business without Dick or Mr. Car- 
rington, or even that Mr. Morris.” 

“Oh, bother them all!” exclaimed Sarah, tossing her 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


267 


head; “I don’t see as the men in the business have shown 
themselves so powerfully smart we need to be afraid of 
them. If I’d known how things stood from the start I 
wouldn’t have needed any man to tell me what to do or 
how to do it either. Yes,” she added suddenly, “there’s 
just one I mean shall have any say in the matter so far as 
I’m concerned, and that’s Will Rogers, who said he 
wouldn’t wipe his old shoes on me while I let Sandy 
Mackenzie fool around.” 

It was impossible for the girls not to laugh heartily at 
this candid speech. 

“Oh, yes,” continued Sarah; “he advised me for the 
best straight along, only now I’d be ashamed to let him 
know how I’ve been fooled. Do you know,” added the 
girl, passing her hand across her head, “I don’t believe 
I’ve ever got real good and strong since that time I was 
sick over at the cottage. My head spins around now just 
the way it did that other time.” 

Mrs. Holmes stood up at once. 

“Sarah is really not at all well,” she said anxiously; 
“she has been under a dreadful strain for twenty-four 
hours, and indeed the past few weeks have been trying in 
a great many ways to her. We had better go back, I think, 
to the hotel near the depot, where I have been before.” 

“No, no, indeed,” exclaimed Jean; “you must not think 
of such a thing;- if you’ll put up with such accommodation 
as we can offer you; and, Sarah, you must lie down at once 
in my room upstairs and try to get a little sleep. Polly,” 
she added, “won’t you try to find Linda or Miss Carring- 
ton?” 

Polly darted away, just as well pleased to be by herself 
for a few moments, since she had not reached the point of 
sympathy which made Jean so sweet and tender in her 


268 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


manner with their unexpected guest. She stood still an 
instant in the hall, realizing that the change in the for- 
tunes of the Hill House could not affect them materially, 
except in placing someone better qualified than Sarah for 
the position as mistress of the place, and she was surprised 
to find that all her scorn of and animosity toward poor 
Sarah had completely died away. Polly hardly liked to 
admit it to herself, but she could not help wondering 
whether, under similar circumstances, she, a daughter of 
the Dykers, would have acted quite so promptly and well. 
No one better than Polly herself knew how much good the 
experience of the past few months had done her, and now 
this voluntary submission on Sarah’s part had made her feel 
all the more keenly her own insignificance. How merely 
theatrical her own little airs and graces, her assumption of 
3'oung ladyhood, appeared. But then these were reflections 
for Polly’s own mind alone, she not having reached a point 
where she felt herself justified in acknowledging herself in 
some ways defeated or converted. 

Miss Carrington and Linda were both busily engaged 
downstairs, but on hearing from Polly that a friend from 
home had arrived who was feeling ill and needed a little 
rest Miss Carrington at once suggested the use of a little 
hall room upstairs until something better could be pro- 
vided, and Sarah w\as really glad of the chance to lie down 
in the quiet and stillness of the little chamber, Jean having 
assisted her to disrobe and put on the dressing-gown she 
had brought with her, and then leaving Polly to sit near 
by, Jean drew Mrs. Holmes into their own little sky parlor 
for a few words of clearer explanation of this most aston- 
ishing business. 

“I onty know,” said Mrs. Holmes, “just what she has 
told me, for she insisted upon hurrying aw T ay. But she 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


269 


has an important box of papers with her, so she says, 
which she insisted upon her aunt’s giving up. I have no 
doubt they will unravel whatever mystery there is left in 
it. The girl has really done wonderfully well,” she con- 
tinued, “but I’m only afraid the excitement will prove too 
much for her.” 

Jean found it difficult to conceal her impatience for Car- 
rington’s return, and could not but feel in the midst of all 
these new disclosures a thrill of delight over the thought 
that come what would she belonged to him, to be guided 
and directed and controlled by his gentle wisdom and love. 
Just what he would advise or what Mr. Morris would say 
it would be difficult, of course, to conjecture, and mean- 
while it would be necessary to give Miss Dyker some 
explanation of what was going on. Miss Carrington sug~ 
gested Jean’s taking Mrs. Holmes up to the old lady’s room 
and letting them simply talk it over after their own 
fashion, and this accomplished, Jean stole back downstairs 
to wait in the front window for Carrington’s return. He 
would not, she felt sure, be delayed much longer, and 
almost in the same instant she saw him turn the corner of 
the street, and the next moment heard his key in the door 
and he was with her. 

“*What is it?” he asked the instant he came into the 
room, for Jean’s face had betrayed her anxiety. 

He listened with earnest attention while she related what 
had happened. 

“Why, that girl must be a trump!” he exclaimed; “and 
we have been wondering, Mr. Morris and I, how we could 
induce her to resign her claim.” 

“You won’t have a bit of trouble,” said Jean; “she 
simply regards it as a matter of honesty to put the whole 
affair into proper hands; but she is worn out with all the 


270 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


excitement, and I have had to make her go to bed and 
rest.” 

“And you yourself,” said Carrington with grave ten- 
derness in his voice and expression; “do you think, now 
that I have just got possession of yon, my little sweet- 
heart, I am going to let you wear yourself out about any- 
body or anything? No, indeed, my child; your cheeks 
look too white as it is, and you will please to remember 
that your young man has a pair of very broad shoulders 
quite able to carry any of your burdens for the next hun- 
dred years or so.” 

Jean drew nearer to him, looking up earnestly into his 
face. 

“And yet,” she said in a low tone of voice, “I was 
wicked enough to think when poor Uncle Neil died life w T as 
going to be nothing but a weary grind for me. Oh, my 
dear,” she went on wistfulty, “you must be very careful 
and not let me be too selfishly happy, for I am afraid now 
there is grave danger of it.” 

“What shall I do?” he answered quickly. “Shall I 
concoct a string of hard names to call you on occasion in 
order to bring you down from the pedestal I have set you 
upon? Or shall we agree that twice a week, say Tues- 
days and Saturdays from nine to ten, I shall treat you to a 
lecture on my own good qualities and your shortcomings? 
Ah, no, my child,” he added, dropping the tone of banter; 
“don’t let us be afraid that we can ever treat each other 
with too much tenderness or love. There will be rubs 
enough of all kinds in the world, and we won’t escape our 
own share without voluntarily adding anything just of 
our own making.” 

“Then I must resign myself to bliss, must I?” said 
Jean quizzically. “But beware — you see, if I start out 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


271 


on that principle it will be terrible ever to disap- 
point me.” 

“I am not afraid,” he said quickly ; “and now, then, little 
woman, let me tell you that Mr. Morris is anxious for you 
and Miss Dyker and Polly to make his niece’s acquaintance 
as soon as possible. You will like her thoroughly. She is 
a bright, charming-looking young creature, thoroughly 
refined and ladylike, and her mother, as she calls her, 
seems to be a remarkable Avoman in her way. Mr. Morris 
assured me that he had only just discovered Avhat a fine 
woman his brother’s widow was, and I fancy he has all 
along been treating her rather too distantly, for fear she 
was not up to the Beacon Street standard.” 

The handle of the door was turned a little timidly and 
Miss Kate’s slender figure and quiet face appeared. 

A look passed between Carrington and Jean, and then 
the former said in his gravest tone of voice: 

“Kate, my dear, there is an end to all my miserable 
hours of loneliness. Will you not welcome Jean as a 
sister?” 

This was a most hopeful beginning, and in less than half 
an hour every member of the little household knew of Jean 
and Carrington’s betrothal, and in spite of the deeper 
anxieties of the moment there was such general rejoicing 
that even poor Sarah could not be left out of it, and Jean 
herself went softly into the little room, where, kneeling by 
the girl’s side, she told her the wonderful piece of neAvs, 
and was pleased by Sarah’s open sympathy. 

“But Avhat have you done with that Dick Appleton?” 
said Sarah, whose weakness had not deprived her of all her 
shrewdness and sagacity. 

Jean had to laugh. 

“Oh, Dick Appleton is quite capable of taking care of 


272 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


himself, Sarah,” she answered, “and he will be greatly- 
interested in hearing what your visit has brought 
about.” 

“Well, after all,” said Sarah, “I aint just a nobody, 
am I?” 

“I should say not,” said Jean; “you are a Somebody 
with a capital S, and I can only hope that in future 3 7 our 
own happiness in life will rep>ay y r ou for what you have 
been brave enough to do.” 

Jean rose as if to leave her patient, but Sarah put out a 
detaining hand. 

“See here, Miss Jean,” said Sarah; “if you don’t mind 
will you wait just a minute? There’s ever so many things 
I’d like to talk to you about. It seems funny now, doesn’t 
it, that I ever wanted to spite you; but, you see, I thought 
you were dead set against me. Could you write a letter 
for me if I was to tell you just what to say, and never let 
on to anyone else?” 

“Indeed I could, Sarah,” answered Jean; “if 3^011 will 
let me go and get my portfolio I will come up and write it 
and address it here and put it in the box myself, and no 
one will ever know anything about it.” 

Sarah’s anxious e3^es closed wearily, while Jean left her 
for a few moments. When she returned between them 
they made out the letter poor Sarah had been so anxious to 
write. 

It ran as follows : 

“Dear Will: 

“I suppose you think me a very mean kind of a girl, and 
maybe I have acted like that, but when you hear the 
whole story I think, maybe, you’ll say Sarah has some- 
thing good in her, after all. I thought I owned all 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


273 


that Hill House, but I find out now I didn’t. You see, it’s 
just this way: My father, Philip Dalton, never told me 
that he had been married before; but it seems he had. 
He was married somewhere and took his wife down to New 
York, where they boarded with a Mrs. Morris on Seventh 
Street. My father’s wife died and left a little girl that 
Mrs. Morris adopted and brought her up as her own. 
Then, after that, he came back to the country and met my 
mother, and never let on a word that he’d been married 
before. I don’t w T ant to talk against him, only I guess he 
was a regular scamp. You see, he was Mrs. Malone’s half 
brother, and she had always kind of shielded him and been 
proud of him because he looked so like a gentleman, and 
could play the piano so well. Now you understand, I 
hope, how 1 came to make the mistake. When my aunt 
came to the Hill House and got very sick she brought a 
box of papers with her, and from what she said to me I 
made up my mind that there was something wrong I’d 
have to find out about, she was so terribly afraid of any- 
one seeing what was in the box. So when she was sound 
asleep I just looked it through for myself, and then I found 
out pretty w T ell what had been going on. You know me, 
and when my mind’s made up there aint any use of trying 
to change me, but O Will, I tell you for a little while 
I felt as if I was just like a common thief, and yet 1 did 
hate to give up being such a grand lady. I sat right 
down in front of the fire, and I knew if 1 threw all them 
papers into it no one would ever be the wiser, and I just had 
to wrestle with myself for quite a while, for, you see, I was 
so afraid everyone would laugh at me; and 'then I 
thought like this: If ever I put my hand into Will’s I 
want him to know it’s an honest one, and even if we’re 
poor we haven’t got anything to be ashamed of. I was all 
18 


274 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


dressed up in my elegant silk, all trimmed with lace, and, 
do you know, I kind of hated myself, because I felt it 
didn’t belong to me. I didn’t dare trust myself to wait 
long, and that lawyer, Sandy Mackenzie, was in Albany, 
and Dr. Fraser wasn’t at his office, so I just wrote Sandy 
Mackenzie a letter and told him I was coming to New 
York to attend to my own business, and he’d better look 
out for himself, as I was going straight to see Jean Gar- 
nier. 1 knew she’d do the straight thing every time. I 
brought Mrs. Holmes with me, but I see now I w 7 as too 
sick to stand the journey. It’s just all I can do to write 
these lines; or I oughtn’t to say I’m writing them, I’m 
just telling Jean Gamier what to put down, because I 
want the truth to be known right now and here, and I 
want you to know just w r hat I’ve done. I aint anybody 
but just Sarah Dalton, and I don’t even own the clothes 
on my back. It kind of worries me to think how I’ll ever 
pay back the money I spent up at the Hill House, but 
perhaps they’ll let me do it a little at a time. There 
shan’t no one be able to say that Sarah wasn’t honest. 
And now, dear Will, you know just who and w r hat I 
am, and I’d like nothing better to have than a good 
talk with you, when you could tell me just what I’d 
better do.” 

W T hen Sarah, with much difficulty, had dictated this 
important letter, she turned with a wdstful look to Jean 
and asked : 

“How shall I end it up?” 

“Why,” said Jean, “you could say, ‘Your loving 
friend.’ ” 

“Sure enough,” said Sarah; “and if I aint that I’m just 
nothing at all.” 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


275 


So the letter, which had cost Sarah more than anyone 
could ever know, was signed: 

“Your loving friend.” 

And Jean held the girl’s hand while she traced her own 
name at the bottom of the page, adding to it, “Dalton,” 
addressing it to the young man, care of his employer. 


XL. 


I need hardly say that the little family in Fourth 
Avenue had felt themselves in a most disjointed frame of 
mind. Edith was perfectly well aware that there was 
something important about to happen, yet felt too proud 
to question her mother until permitted to do so, and Mrs. 
Morris had a most uncomfortable sensation of being 
doubted by the one being on earth dearest to her heart. 
She realized how wrong she had been to have practised 
any deception in the matter of Edith’s birth, even though 
she had considered it for the child’s good, and felt miser- 
able with every thought of what Edith would say on 
learning the whole story. She had put the matter com- 
pletely into her brother-in-law’s hands, and during the 
morning she found it hard to wait for his return. 

A hasty lunch had been prepared and eaten by Mrs. 
Morris and Edith almost in silence, when the door-bell 
rang and a moment later Mr. Morris was in the room. 

His whole manner and expression had undergone a re- 
markable change since he was last there, and he was in 
such evident good humor that Mrs. Morris tried to feel 
encouraged. 

“ Where is the little girl?” he exclaimed. “Edith, 
Edith,” he called out; “let me have a good look at you.” 

And as Edith stepped forward from the recess of the 
room he continued : 

“Upon my word, you really are a credit to the family. 
What have you meant, Christina, by keeping her hidden 
all these years?” 


276 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


277 


“I’ve not been hidden, Uncle Charles,” said Edith 
proudly, “and I am very glad to give the credit where it 
belongs. If mother and you have any secrets which I 
ought to know I would like to hear them at once, because 
I can’t go on seeing mother so unlike herself. Do you 
know, Uncle Charles, how she has acted the last day or 
two? She will look at me and say nothing, but her eyes 
will fill with tears, and then, after a minute, she will say 
something like this: ‘ Edith, w T hat will you do without 
your mother? Suppose you have to lose me.’ Now you 
can imagine what that makes me feel like; and then all 
these mysterious talks. If mother is in any trouble,” 
concluded the girl, “I want to share it and know all 
about it.” 

Charles Morris looked at his niece with profound admi- 
ration. 

“What would you do, Edith,” he said at last, “if j^ou 
found out that you were heiress to an immense amount of 
property — if you owned a fine country place and had a 
bank account away up into the thousands?” 

Edith said nothing, but she turned very pale, and in- 
stinctively put her hand out toward her mother. 

“I don’t think, Uncle Charles,” she said gravely, “that 
you are the kind of person to make a wild joke; so would 
you please tell us exactly what you mean.” 

Mrs. Morris felt completely reassured by Edith’s manner 
and the touch of the strong young hand in her own. 

“You are your mother’s own daughter!” exclaimed Mr. 
Morris. “It’s a queer thing, I declare,” he went on, “how 
blood will tell. Now, then, we have not much time to 
lose. I have sifted this matter pretty thoroughly and I see 
just how things stand. There is no use in beating about 
the bush any longer. If Edith will put her things on I 


278 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


want to introduce her to some of her new relations. 
After that, Edith, you can do just what you like, and I 
hardly think,” he went on in great good humor, “you will 
find that your mother here, as you like to call her, will 
need to keep a little store. You will probably be able to 
make her more than comfortable.” 

Edith still held her mother’s hand and looked at her now 
for advice or suggestion. 

“Do as your uncle tells you, Edith,” said Mrs. Morris 
gravely. “I’m glad to say I can trust you anywhere. I 
am not ashamed of anything I have done for you.” 

In a few moments Edith, still feeling bewildered, and 
yet full of a girlish pleasure in the novelty of her position, 
had prepared herself to accompany her uncle on their 
mysterious expedition. She took five minutes to debate 
as to which of her two hats she had better wear, and at 
last decided in favor of a wide-brimmed red felt with 
small black ostrich tips. This, with the addition of a 
white silk handkerchief at her neck, and her long paletot, 
gave her quite the young-ladylike appearance she most 
desired, and Mr. Morris could find no fault with her 
appearance. 

Mr. Morris had a great deal on his mind to say, but he 
found himself in such a novel position that he wisely re- 
frained from saying anything beyond the interchange of a 
few common-places. Within himself he was wondering 
why he had so long been fearful lest his brother’s child, 
as he had always thought her, would not turn out a credit 
to the race. Now he was more than worried lest his own 
part in the whole affair should not redound to his credit. 
Edith’s alert kind of cheerfulness of manner was a great 
comfort to him. Whatever she was thinking or feeling 
she was sensible enough not to worry him with, and the 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


279 


only thing he found it necessary to say was, as he rang 
the bell at Benton Place: 

“Edith, whatever you do or say, please don’t let us 
have any kind of an excitement. We will just talk things 
over quietly and settle the whole business with a few 
words. Are you the kind of girl,” he added, looking at 
her critically, “who ever has hysterics, or anything of 
that kind?” 

Edith was compelled to laugh. 

“Uncle Charles,” she exclaimed, “you don’t begin to 
know how funny you are. I never had hysterics in my 
life and I don’t think I’ll begin now. I’m worried, of 
course, thinking all that mother has to go through, and 
it’s rather surprising, isn’t it, to find yourself very rich 
when you thought you were very poor; but I guess I can 
bear the shock if you can.” 

It was Jean herself who opened the door, and her eyes 
spoke a welcome before she had said a w T ord. 

She led the way into the little parlor, Mr. Morris intro- 
ducing Edith with as much courtliness of manner as 
though he were opening a ball. 

“I’m so glad,” said Jean, “that things are going to be 
at last settled, and I can only hope, Mr. Morris, that your 
niece will keep the dear old family place as well as we 
tried to do. It’s been in our family for generations, and 
everything belonging to it is dear to me.” 

Edith had been revolving one or two points in her own 
mind, and now she spoke out of her own solemn convic- 
tions. 

“Miss Gamier,” she said slowly, “so far as I can under- 
stand it, the Hill House property belongs to me. But I 
would never enter it nor touch one penny belonging to it 
if I thought there was any kind of a wwong done to any- 


280 


A FAMILY DILEMMA 


one else. Please don’t interrupt me, Uncle Charles,” she 
went on, “for I have made up my mind just what to say. 
I don’t understand all the business as yet, and therefore I 
want to find out everything connected with it. So far as 
I can see, this young lady and her family were brought up 
supposing they would inherit all the property. There’s 
something,” added the young girl, “higher and better 
than just what the law allows. I’m not as smart as you 
are, Uncle Charles, in regard to all kinds of law matters, 
but I think I know right from wrong.” 

Mr. Morris simply stared in amazement, first at his 
niece and then at Jean Gamier. He was trying to find 
out where Edith had obtained all her high-minded sense 
of honor which alone had prompted her to act as she 
was now doing; moreover, he realized that there was 
something in his brother’s child impossible for him to 
combat. 

“I suppose, Miss Gamier,” he said at last, “we must 
let this wilful girl have her own way, and I am sure,” he 
added, “I am only too anxious to have her on good social 
terms with relatives like yourself.” 

“But what is her way?” asked Jean. “Don’t you 
think, Mr. Morris, that she should not decide every thing 
in a hurry like this? My uncle made his will, but delayed 
to sign it.” 

Edith gave a little cry of delight. 

“There now,” she exclaimed, “that just settles the 
whole thing. Don’t you see, Uncle Charles, whether 
Colonel Dyker signed the will or not, that is the way he 
intended the property to go? Can’t we find that will any- 
where and act accordingly?” 

“Well, upon my word, Edith,” exclaimed Mr. Morris, 
“I don’t know what to make of you. Do you mean to say 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


281 


as Colonel Dyker’s heiress you want to share the money 
with half a dozen other people?” 

“I want this” said Edith: “to know exactly what 
Colonel Dyker really intended to do. It isn’t likely, is 
it, that he would have brought up his relations letting 
them think that they were well off and then leave them 
without a cent. You know,” she went on, “mother calls 
me very headstrong, and I suppose I am; but if you 
can’t advise me the right way, Uncle Charles, I can 
consult old Mr. Perry. There is no danger of his not 
giving me the best kind of advice.” 

After that what could Mr. Morris do but own himself 
defeated, and in point of fact he was too well pleased with 
Edith to care to combat her in any of her decisions. He 
flattered himself that she was doing credit to her New 
England ancestry in the very downright view she took of 
things, and in deciding to let her have her own way saw 
that he was establishing himself thoroughly in her good 
graces. 

“There is just one thing,” said Jean, “which I think I 
ought to tell you, Mr. Morris; Sarah is here — the young 
girl whom Mrs. Malone brought up. Her father, I think, 
was Mr. Dalton; he married her mother after your sister- 
in-law died.” 

Quiet as Jean’s voice had been, a bombshell thrown into 
the room could not have startled Mr. Morris more that her 
words. 

“Are we never going to see the end of this?” he ex- 
claimed. “Do you mean to tell me that girl is here and 
in the house?” 

“Yes,” said Jean anxiously, “and very ill. I don’t 
dare to allow her to have any excitement. It seems that 
during Mrs. Malone’s illness she had frequently called for 


282 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


a little rosewood box which she kept near at hand, and 
Sarah, suspecting that it might contain some information 
which her aunt was desirous of withholding from her, 
determined to see what the box really contained. Find- 
ing her aunt asleep, she took the box from the room and 
very carefully examined everything which it contained, 
and it was the information gained in this way that gave 
Sarah the clue to the true state of affairs.” 

“And this girl,” exclaimed Mr. Morris, “is here, you 
say, now?” 

“Certainly,” said Jean; “she and the lady whom Dr. 
Fraser engaged as her companion came directly on from 
Thornton as soon as Sarah made this discovery. The poor 
girl w r as really too ill for the journey, but it seems that 
she was only anxious to have everything settled in the 
right way, and her first thought was to reach me.” 

Mr. Morris remained lost in thought for a few moments. 

Then he said very quietly: 

“She has the papers with her, you tell me?” 

Jean nodded. 

“Can I see her?” he inquired. “I will not worry her, 
but in a case of this kind I think a few words of explana- 
tion will no doubt make her feel more at rest. Please 
remember, Miss Gamier, that I am an old lawyer, and as 
such have to be as good as a doctor. I will not worry 
nor excite your patient. On the contrary , I think I can 
set her mind completely at rest.” 

Jean was thoroughly convinced that Mr. Morris w T as 
working in the right direction, and now only asked that 
she might be allowed to prepare Sarah for the meeting. 

It seemed to her as she flew up the stairs as though 
some great load had been taken off her heart. 

Sarah was sleeping, but at the first sound of Jean’s 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


283 


voice, speaking in a low tone to Mrs. Holmes, roused and 
sat upright in the bed. 

“Sarah dear,” said Jean quietly, “there is a gentleman 
downstairs who would like very much to see you and talk 
over this business matter with you. You need not feel 
worried, for you are with your best friends, and I don’t 
intend to have anything make you sick and bothered. 
Will you trust to me, Sarah, and let this gentleman see 
you for a few moments?” 

“Go ahead,” said Sarah; “I guess you know what 
you’re doing.” 

With this permission Jean went down, and only waiting 
to urge Mr. Morris not to worry Sarah by too much legal 
preamble, conducted him upstairs to the little room. 

Sarah, true to herself, was slightly defiant as he entered; 
but the sight of the girl’s really feverish and worn looks 
made him compassionate, and he seated himself beside the 
bed with as gentle an air of solicitude as a physician could 
have used. 

“I think, Sarah,” he said quietly, “you are going to 
turn out our good angel in all this matter. Now will you 
let me understand your history thoroughly and have all 
the papers you brought with you from Thornton? Too 
much depends upon it to delay any longer.” 

“There they are,” said Sarah jerkily, weaving her hand 
toward the little bureau in the room; “you can just take 
them and do what you like; and I only hope,” she went 
on, “Will Rogers will be satisfied now; I guess I aint quite 
beneath his notice if I am poor, and look a’ here,” she con- 
tinued, grasping Jean by the arm, “you won’t forget all 
the money I spent when I didn’t mean to.” 

“Dear Sarah,” exclaimed Jean, “we will forget every- 
thing but that you are a miracle of honesty, and I am very 


284 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


certain Mr. Will Rogers will have a treasure if he gets you 
for a .wife.” 

Sarah closed her eyes, a slight expression of disdain 
crossing her face. 

“Don’t you fret,” was all she answered. 

Mr. Morris, with a motion to Jean, quietly left the 
room, and having seen that Sarah was comfortable, Jean 
followed him. 

“This is a most extraordinary case,” said Mr. Morris in 
a subdued tone. “I think now the best thing I can do is 
to look these papers over carefully, and when Sarah is a 
little stronger discuss matters further with her. We may 
possibly need some evidence from Mrs. Malone, but I think 
we have a clear case.” 

He paused, a smile crossing his face. 

“The only difficulty is, Miss Gamier,” he continued, 
“that should my niece inherit the property it leaves you 
rather out in the cold.” 

“But the right will have been done,” said Jean proudly. 
“I am young and able to take care of myself; I am only 
■worrying thinking of Aunt Ellen in her old age.” 

“Edith will have to say something on all this,” he 
answered, “and I think you will find she has her own mind 
made up, and a more determined little piece of humanity 
I never came across.” 

Meanwhile Edith had been trying to content herself as 
best she might in the parlor. Her own mind was definitely 
made up, and her only fear was that her uncle would 
decide things for her. Provided nothing was done which 
should separate her from Mrs. Morris, that her adopted 
mother could have an income which would relieve her of 
every daily care, she felt that her own girlish needs would 
be satisfied. Moreover, there was a touch of romance in 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


285 


the whole affair which appealed strongly to Edith’s nature. 
It lifted her out of the ordinary common-place routine of 
life and brought her into contact with people and things 
which she felt herself akin to. With a young girl’s quick 
enthusiasm she felt how fine it would be to have for rela- 
tions, and possibly companions, people like Mr. Morris 
and Jean. Her life so far had been delicately cared for in 
one way, but there had been few social surroundings which 
the girl had really liked. 

“However you settle it,” said Edith suddenly, “if my 
name amounts to anything ^ won’t sign it to any paper 
that leaves everyone else out in the cold. What I think 
ought to be done is to let Colonel Dyker’s w r ill stand just 
as he meant it should. I don’t see,” added the girl, “when 
everybody knows what he meant and wanted to do, why, 
just because he didn’t live long enough to sign his name, 
other people should suffer.” 

She looked at her uncle, who returned the glance, not 
quite prepared at the moment to answer this remarkable 
statement of facts. Whether it was that he caught the 
infection of Edith’s spirit of equity, or that he thought to 
himself it was no use to argue with a girl of her calibre, 
no one could ever tell; but, at all events, he said very 
decidedly: 

“Miss Gamier, my niece is perfectly right. We will 
settle this matter out of court. It is very easy to find put 
what Colonel Dyker’s original intention was, as his lawyer 
certainly has the unsigned will, and if my niece here insists 
that that shall stand there will only be the delay of the 
necessary formalities. I don’t see,” continued Mr. Morris, 
resigning himself completely to the situation, “that there 
is anything else to be done.” 

Jean felt for one moment as though everything in her 


286 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


brain was in a whirl. Was this to be the end of all her 
anxiety and care — had she any right to allow this young 
girl to act the part of fairy godmother in a fashion? 
But Mr. Morris’ keen, critical face and well-poised manner 
reassured her. He certainly was doing nothing upon 
mere impulse. Sarah also had to be considered, and think- 
ing of her, Jean said quickly : 

“But, Mr. Morris, even if we accept the yery generous 
offer Edith has made, what shall we do about Sarah 
Dalton?” 

“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Morris, “why, she will be thor- 
oughly happy on a small income we might allow her in 
consideration of what she has done for us. If I’m any 
judge of human nature I think this girl, from all I hear, 
will be prouder of having been the deus ex machina than 
anything else, and I am more than thankful that my little 
niece here has found such congenial relations.” 

Edith had not spoken, but her face showed that there 
was something on her mind to say, and Jean understood it 
in a moment. 

“What is it, Edith?” she said, smiling. 

“I’m just thinking of mother,” said Edith. “I don’t 
want to do or say anything she wouldn’t like.” 

Mr. Morris sprang to his feet. 

“Miss Gamier,” he exclaimed, “Edith is one girl in ten 
thousand. She is loyal to the heart’s core. She knows 
what Mrs. Morris has done for her and been to her, and I 
am proud of her for keeping it all in her mind.” 

Jean smiled. 

“There is where she shows the instinct of her race,” 
said Jean. “We Dykers are nothing if we are not 
loyal. There is more in tradition of that kind than 
people can suspect till they find themselves face to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


287 


face with some emergency. Then it is that the real grit 
shows.” 

“Well, what shall Ido now?” said Mr. Morris. “Shall 
I leave Edith with you for a little while?” 

“I wish you would,” exclaimed Jean; “we need a little 
time to get acquainted.” 

Mr. Morris was only too pleased to arrange matters in 
this way, and promising to call back in an hour or two, 
he left Edith to make friends with her newly found 
relations. 

Jean waited a moment for deliberation, her heart all the 
time full of what Carrington w 7 ould say to this new turn in 
the wheel of her life. Then she decided to send Polly to 
the parlor to make friends with their cousin, and for her- 
self explain matters to the master of the house. 

Whatever had happened to Polly, all her little airs and 
graces seemed to have been forgotten in view of so much 
that was really important, and when Jean explained to her 
that Edith Morris was waiting in the parlor to be enter- 
tained during her uncle’s absence Polly arose with the 
very gentlest kind of manner, saying: 

“Certainly, Jeanie dear; shall I just talk to her? Per- 
haps she can tell me what to do up at the school, for I feel 
myself in a perfect wilderness there.” 

“That’s just what you had better talk to her about,” 
said Jean. “Tdl her just exactly how you feel, all about 
the teachers and. the girls and everything. Sarah is sleep- 
ing quietly and Mrs. Holmes will take good care of her, so 
just for a little while we need not worry.” 

The girls went do wn the stairs together, and when Polly 
entered the parlor Jean very timidly knocked at the studio 
door. 

Carrington’s “Come in” was in a very depressed tone of 


288 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


voice, but as Jean entered bis face brightened as though a 
ray of sunshine came with her. 

“What is it?” said Carrington suddenly. 

“I am so worried,” said Jean; “but I am sure you will 
tell me just what I had better do. Mr. Morris has gone 
away for a short time after making things very clear to me.” 

She explained the situation thoroughly to Carrington, 
who listened with grave intentness. 

“Whatever is the ending,” Jean concluded, “I am 
thankful the whole affair is in such good hands. It seems 
now only a case of too much generosity on the part of 
Edith Morris. But, Mr. Carrington, when you see and 
talk with her uncle you will feel convinced that whatever 
he says is based on sound good judgment. His niece, 
Edith, is upstairs now. I was only too anxious to see you 
and discuss it all with you.” 

“Is there any discussion needed?” exclaimed Carring- 
ton. “It seems to me* Jean, you have done the only thing 
that you could or ought to have done under the circum- 
stances. Whatever comes of it you need not feel ashamed 
of your part in the matter. Morris, you say, will re- 
turn ?” 

“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Jean, “and then you must 
see him and settle the whole affair.” 

Carrington smiled. 

“Then you give me power of attorney, do you?” he 
enquired. 

“Absolutely,” said Jean; “and now let me run away 
and see to my invalid. Poor Sarah, after all but for her 
what would we have known of all this business?” 

Jean gave him her hand for one moment and then has- 
tened from the studio, running upstairs quickly, anxious 
to let Sarah know something of what had happened. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


289 


The girl was lying in a very tranquil sleep, and as Jean 
entered the room Mrs. Ilolmes lifted a warning finger. 

“She has been so worried,” Mrs. Holmes whispered, 
“for fear everything would not turn out all right, and I 
only coaxed her into quietness by assuring her that it 
would worry you to find her ill. Can you tell me what 
Mr. Morris had to say?” 

Jean knelt down by Mrs. Holmes and said in a very 
composed tone of voice: 

“He had just this to say: So far as the Dyker estate 
goes, we have no rights in it at all; but his little niece, 
Edith Morris, has shown a spirit that would make dear 
Uncle Neil proud if he were alive. She declares that she 
will accept nothing unless the Colonel’s will, which he 
never signed, is allowed to stand. And then — well, when 
that is all settled, we must look after Sarah’s best inter- 
ests, for without her what should we have done?” 


19 


XLI. 


Youth is a wonderful power in itself. The principle 
persons in our little drama were young enough to be buoy- 
ant and light-hearted enough to enjoy novelty, new friend- 
ships, and the excitement of this sudden turn in the wheel of 
their fortunes. Edith and Polly made friends within half 
an hour, and when Jean went in search of them she found 
the two girls comparing notes as to their various studies. 
Not a trace of hauteur was there in Polly’s manner. She 
was intensely interested in everything Edith had to tell 
her of school life, and apparently the graver affairs of the 
moment were forgotten. 

“Your uncle will be back soon, Edith,” said Jean, “and 
then he will arrange all this business matter with you. 
Some day when you are in the Hill House you will j-ealize 
why we have loved it so dearly, and I am sure,” said Jean 
gravely, “you will make a very nice little mistress of the 
place.” 

Edith gave her head a decisive little nod. 

“Never mind,” she said quietly; “you know what I 
told my uncle; I have made my own conditions, and I 
never shall take the Hill House on any other terms. Why, 
isn’t it enough,” exclaimed the girl, “to have found all 
my mother’s relations without wanting anything else ?” 

And from this point of view it was impossible to move 
Colonel Dyker’s heiress. Astute, clever lawyer as he 
was, Mr. Morris found that his niece was determined on 
certain points. She would accept nothing except on the 
terms of the Colonel’s unsigned will, and she had her 

290 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


291 


adopted mother to sustain her in this argument. More- 
over, she insisted that Sarah’s interests should be consid- 
ered, and when Will Rogers appeared on the scene Edith 
had another strong supporter in her view of the case. In 
the midst of an argument she would simply sit down and, 
folding her hands, would declare that unless her point of 
view was accepted she would leave everything in statu 
quo until she came of age, and thereby complicate affairs 
more than ever. 

Two days of discussion and indecision of this kind went 
by, driving Jean almost to despair, while Mr. Morris exer- 
cised all his legal ability to reduce his niece to the terms 
he at first proposed; but Edith was immovable, and so 
what Mr. Morris called a compromise was at last effected. 

The Hill House intact was to be returned to Miss 
Dyker, Jean, and Polly, an income sufficient for their 
needs to be settled upon them, and then Sarah’s interests 
were considered. It was while she lay still hovering 
between life and death that certain papers were made out, 
by which a little income was settled upon her for life, and 
Mi*. William Rogers was at once notified of the proceed- 
ings. 


XLII. 


One fine morning early in the month of June Mrs. 
William Rogers, from the doorstep of her new cottage on 
a street in Thornton, gazed up and down with the air of 
satisfaction which had become habitual to her of late. 
She was thoroughly satisfied with her own position, socially 
and otherwise, in the tillage of Thornton, and the county 
generally, and was wont to remark that there was nothing 
like feeling you had had the very best of a good bargain. 
If she would have owned to herself any secret annoyance, it 
was that in her brand-new little house she found so little 
for her active fingers to do, but there was always pleasure 
to be derived from airing and dusting her rooms, looking 
around from one point to another deciding where a new 
picture could be hung, possibly some latest fashion in 
fancy-work be introduced, or some of the many patent 
novelties Will was fond of bringing home be displayed to 
their best advantage. Whatever was the very latest and 
newest, according to the weekly journals for which 
Sarah subscribed, it was her dear delight to invest in, 
and as a consequence the rooms of her little cottage were 
decorated w 7 ith so many pieces of fancy work, sofa pillows, 
draperies, etc., that they looked almost as though ready 
for contribution to a church fair. Rogers would laugh- 
ingly call the “spare room” upstairs Sarah’s dime 
museum, since it was a 'wilderness of every kind and 
description of l’ancy-w T ork, decoration, pillow shams, and 
portieres, which made one almost feel afraid to touch 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


293 


anything for fear there might be some patent arrange- 
ment connected with it which would be put out of 
place. 

“What would you do,” Will remarked one day, “if 
someone came to visit you with two or three trunks? It 
would just be a question as to whether you or your friend 
would have to give way. There might be room for her to 
sit down and stand up again, but if she took her hat off I 
declare she’d have to hang it to the ceiling for want of a 
place to put it down in.” 

To which Sarah responded, with the old toss of her 
head : 

“You can wait till that person comes along, I guess.” 

One guest, or I had better say member of their house- 
hold, was gently and quietly and most tenderly cared for 
by both Sarah and her husband, although for obvious 
reasons she occupied a little room in the small wing of the 
cottage. This w 7 as Mrs. Malone, whose condition of help- 
lessness of mind and body would have been pitiable in the 
extreme but that it had mercifully brought with it a com- 
plete surrender of all her old antagonism of spirit. She 
was perfectly happy, tranquil, and at ease, understanding 
in a vague kind of w 7 ay that Sarah had righted the old 
wrongs which had for many years laid heavy on her con- 
science, and fulfilling the strange law of compensation 
which so many times goes to prove that virtue is its own 
reward. Her mind was at all times somewhat clouded, 
but she understood enough of what was going on about 
her to be very glad when Aggie and the little boy paid a 
visit to Sarah and spent a nice quiet day in her room, 
talking over all of the old times she could remember. 
Singularly enough, all memory of her step-brother’s strange 
career had faded from her mind, so that Sarah had more 


294 • 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


reason than ever to be thankful for the night on which 
she had found all those decisive papers. 

Only a girl of Sarah Rogers’ peculiar type and calibre 
could have enjoyed her relationship with the Hill House, 
such as it was, just in the way in which she did, and it 
was characteristic of her that while she listened to some 
advice on the subject from Mrs. Mackenzie and Dr. 
Fraser, she made up her own mind definitely just what 
stand and position to take. She wished by all their 
mutual world to be known and accepted as a relation, a 
neighbor, and a friend. This being accomplished, she had 
not the slightest idea of making herself in any way dis- 
agreeable or intrusive. But she thoroughly enjoyed her 
actual friendship with Jean Gamier, and one of her great- 
est delights was in the kind of confidential terms upon 
which she found herself with that young lady. There 
was a bond of sympathy, unexpressed, but keenly felt, be- 
tween them, and it might be in long days to come that 
Jean would find in Sarah a helpful, tender, and protecting 
presence. At all events, Jean openly made much of young 
Mrs. Rogers, and would have had her constantly at the 
Ilill House but that Sarah’s peculiarly keen tact was her 
own defence against any slights she might have had to en- 
counter from people she would meet there. It was possi- 
bly owing to Jean’s warm espousal of Sarah that Mrs. 
Rogers in her very showy little cottage had received so 
many visits from the county people, and another evidence 
of Sarah’s good sense was in her seldom availing herself 
of invitations sent her. Her husband had, through their 
new influences and in virtue of his own sagacity, obtained 
a good position as agent for a life insurance company 
not far from his own little home, so that Sarah was not 
denied the comfort and enjoyment of knowing that he was 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


295 


working his way well up tlie ladder, and at the same time 
free to spend a great deal of his time with her, while no 
prouder man existed in the entire northern part of the 
State. Everything seemed turning out to the warm- 
hearted young fellow’s entire satisfaction. 

While Sarah on this June morning was observing the 
aspect of things generally from her doorstep, Jean in the 
Hill House was going through more excitement than she 
had supposed could come into her life. 

An unexpected offer to start at once for a six months’ 
tour in California had been sent to Carrington, and he 
absolutely refused to accept it unless Jean would accom- 
pany him as his wife. Mrs. Mackenzie was paying one of 
her almost daily visits to the Hill House when the letter 
arrived, and upon Jean’s lifting a pair of very anxious 
eyes to her friend’s face, Mrs. Mackenzie answered in her 
most matter-of-fact tone : 

“Well, Jean, we mustn’t even discuss it. Of course 
you will do as Mr. Carrington says. And after all, it’s 
only a question, one might say, as to whether you would 
marry him to-day or to-morrow, and to tell you the 
truth,” said Mrs. Mackenzie earnestly, “I don’t like 
these to-morrows. They are more apt to bring pain than 
pleasure.” 

Once Jean had given way she was quite willing to let 
the household enthusiasm over the new event rise to high- 
est pitch, and Mrs. Mackenzie was in her element. Such 
an occasion she and Miss Dyker had decided justified them 
in once more opening the old Hill House with its former 
spirit of hospitality and good cheer, and perhaps it was 
just as well, Jean argued to herself, that things had to be 
done in somewhat of a hurry, since there would be less 
tifne for regrets in the temporary leave-takings all around. 


296 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


She had hardly liked to own to herself how constantly she 
had missed and longed for Carrington’s daily companion- 
ship. Simpler methods of life appealed to her imagi- 
nation constantly while she was trying to attend to the 
various duties of her old home, and her letters to Carring- 
ton were full of suggestions of a future in which the Hill 
House should be their occasional flitting place when their 
dearly loved Bohemian existence was growing into some- 
thing too nomadic to make them good every-day kind of 
people. 

“See how things are evenly balanced,” she had once 
written to him; “here we have the dear old place as a con- 
stant check and helpful influence against the vagabond 
spirit you and I certainly possess in common. My idea of 
happiness is to ‘go on a wander’ together when we feel 
disposed, always conscious of the happy and at the same 
time conventional background to which we may trans- 
port ourselves in Thornton. If we don’t turn out a well- 
poised pair of human beings it will be our own fault. I 
never look around at the sedate elegances of the dear old 
drawing-room here but I think how harmonious they will 
make our lives. When we come back from time to time 
they will teach us the lesson we need and keep away 
all tendency to overdoing even our spirit of fun and 
frivolity.” 

As I have said, once Jean had made up her mind and 
accepted Carrington’s rather dictatorial terms, she allowed 
herself to be drawm into the spirit of happiness which 
pervaded the household very creditably, and she insisted 
upon writing herself to Edith Morris, to tell her the latest 
piece of nevrs and beg that she and Mrs. Morris and the 
Perrys would come at once in order to see the old place 
and be among her special guests at the wedding. It had 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


297 


been decided that Mrs. Morris, whose health was by no 
means of the best, should give up all idea of business in 
New York and take a trip to Colorado, but this nearer 
journey could be easily accomplished first, and be the 
means of uniting the branches of the Dyker family in a 
happier way than had for years been hoped for. Delicate 
as Edith had been about all evidences of her new position, 
she was young and happy-hearted enough to be delighted 
at the prospect of such a visit, and above all things for 
such a romantic occasion ; and on the strength of it she and 
Polly had exchanged two or three letters, Polly making 
characteristic suggestions of what Edith should bring with 
her from New York, especially of what Harry Perry 
should produce in the way of violin and piano music. 
Sarah meanwhile had decided to claim one privilege — 
«.e., that little Alice Bird should be her special guest, while 
a few of the young ladies from Eastman’s store were to 
come up on a special train as wedding guests for the day. 

Until this morning Jean had not felt how promptly 
everything had to be arranged, and leaving Polly to attend 
to certain matters in the house, she hastened down to the 
village to consult with Sarah on certain preliminaries 
attending their guests’ arrival, and encountered her sworn 
ally standing in her gateway looking at things in general, 
as I have said, with an air of perfect good-fellowship and 
contentment. 

It was Sarah’s turn to be conventional, and with a little 
frown she drew Jean inside the gate. 

“Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed, “it won’t do for you to 
be running round like this if what I hear is true, that Mr. 
Carrington has sent on to say you are to be married at 
once.” 

Jean laughed, but admitted that Sarah had etiquette on 


298 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


her side, and directly they were in Mrs. Rogers’ little 
parlor she explained her errand. 

“Now you know, Sarah,” she said, “how things are all 
around, and 1 want you to go down to the station, if you 
will, two or three times to-day, with the very best of the 
carriages to meet the friends we have telegraphed for, and 
I will trust you to bring them up to the house in the proper 
style. You will have little Alice Bird and your friends 
here, I suppose; and anyone you want to invite in a hurry 
this way, just use your own judgment about, and consider 
the Hill House like” — Jean laughed — “well a Hotel Annex 
to your own. But 1 particularly want to have you up 
there with me as much as possible.” 

“Well, you know where to find me every time, I guess,” 
was Sarah’s answer, but the thought of parting with Jean 
even for a time made her lips quiver, and a moment later 
she was kneeling down at Jean’s side. 

“I wonder if you know,” she said, trying to control these 
mortifying signs of depression, “how I am going to miss 
you, even if you go away for a little while. I’m not 
afraid of your forgetting me, but well, I’ll tell you what 
it is; you’ve been to me, Jean, like some of the pictures 
people look at and wish they could be like. You know 
what I mean. When you go away I won’t feel as if I had 
anything better to look at, that kind of way, than when I 
see my own face in the looking-glass.” 

“There’s no going away about it,” answered Jean, “we 
are only going to make as short a trip as possible, and 
then come back just to form a new home centre, as George 
says, for all the family.” 

Sarah rose to her feet, and remembering the practical 
side of the question, said gravely: 

“Well, if all those people are coming and we’ve got to 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


299 


get ready for a wedding, I think we’d better make up our 
minds at once just what is to be done. You tell me what 
I’m to do first.” 

And a half an hour later Sarah was in the Hill House 
prepared to make herself generally useful in every sense 
of the word, thoroughly elated by the prospect of all the 
company about to be assembled in the fine old house. 

Jean had confided to her that, by an arrangement between 
herself and Carrington, she was going off quietly to a 
junction station to meet him at a certain train. It was 
her special tribute to the calm and complete mutual under- 
standing which had marked their knowledge of each other 
from first to last. Polly also knew of it and thoroughly 
approved, so that, while the House was full of a cheerful 
and unusual activity wdiich marks such occasions, Jean 
dressed herself quietly, slipped out of the little side door 
to the upper gate, where Peter Knapp had a small pony 
carriage in waiting for her. 

As she drove herself over the quiet country road, she 
wondered newly what there had been in her own life and 
that of those around her to bring about so fair an ending 
of all which had once seemed to mean darkness and storm. 
Everything had turned out, she could not but reflect, in 
a -way which would have thoroughly gratified the higher, 
finer side of the old Colonel’s nature. The House had 
resumed its original intention of gentle, well-bred, diffusive 
hospitality; and added to the old form was a spirit of 
generosity and sweetness which made it worthy of its best 
traditions; and now, as Jean reflected, here was she, driv- 
ing along the country roads in such a quiet, happy fashion, 
with one dearest thought in her mind: that owing to 
what she had to give of love and faith and confidence — of 
worldly goods as well — the highest part of Carrington’s 


300 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


ambition was realized, and be would Lave the means to 
carry out his best plans for work. 

How lovingly and tenderly she recalled the old house in 
Benton Place; how the happiness she had found therein 
had idealized even the privations they had suffered; and 
then, fortunately for the practical side of all that was before 
her, Jean saw the little railway station close at hand and 
came back to every-day realities. 

There were scarcely ten minutes to wait, and no one at 
the junction recognized the young lady in the pony car- 
riage ; so that when the train drew up and a tall, well-known 
figure sprang out upon the platform, Jean and Carrington 
could meet with no uncomfortable feeling that they were 
criticised and observed. 

“So then,” he said, directly he found himself at her side 
and they w ere speeding along the country road, “you were 
determined, like myself, to begin this important visit un- 
conventionally. Jean, you have a genius for understand- 
ing me. The only thing I dreaded was a very demons- 
trative arrival.” 

“And now,” said Jean gayly, “I can drive you about 
for half an hour, and then just turn in the Hill House gates 
and leave you at the door to make your own entry. Of 
course,” she added, “Miss Kate and the others, if they 
take the next train, will be here very soon.” 

It was one of the happiest half hours in both their lives, 
and although not much was said, yet so much was tacitly 
understood, there v 7 as such a wonderful future of com- 
panionship ahead of them that neither Jean nor Carring- 
ton felt the need of much conversation, and when they 
turned in the Hill House gates it was after a few 
moments of perfect quiet, so that Carrington had full lei- 
sure to observe the dignity and beauty of the fine old place, 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


301 


— and as well to realize the exquisite simplicity and depth 
of Jean’s character, since leaving all this, she had accepted 
the life in Benton Place without a murmur — and had 
given him her love, and pledged herself to become his wife, 
knowing him to be poor, hardworking, and hampered by 
various tiresome considerations. 

“Never mind,” he reflected, as Jean drew in her ponies 
while be alighted, “I have a lifetime ahead of me in which 
to show her what I am worth.” 


XLIII. 


It would be impossible to describe the satisfaction and 
delight with which Sarah found herself at the Hill House 
on such an important occasion as Jean’s confidential 
friend. It. roused all the best faculties within the girl, 
softened everything aggressive in her, and made her feel 
that she had an ideal worth living up to. But it would 
not have been our Sarah of old if she had not taken some 
pride in directing the Knapps, Cecile, who was there 
again, and some improvised servants engaged for the 
occasion, just what to do and how to do it. Sarah sailed 
around in one of her best black silks, suggesting various 
arrangements of the rooms; and her real genius as a house- 
keeper made her valuable. It took her a very short time 
to understand just what the occasion required, and it 
pleased her immensely to feel that she was not only trusted 
but put into a position of authority. 

Jean and Carrington, as may well be imagined, were too 
idle in their thoughts to be of much practical service to 
anybody, but there was a delightful hour during which 
Jean took Carrington from one room to another explain- 
ing their various uses and intentions, and making him 
learn the secret of her devotion to the old place. 

Polly meanwhile was in a fine state of hilarity. Her 
part in the whole affair was to prepare for and receive her 
young guests, and the spring twilight had not gathered 
before the various vehicles sent to the station began to 
return with the merry, happy company in\ited to Jean’s 
wedding. 


302 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


303 


Old Mr. Perry, who had undertaken the care of Edith 
and Mrs. Morris, had delegated Harry to take charge of 
two of Polly’s schoolmates and Miss Nichols from New 
York, and when the old gentleman was ushered into the 
fine hall of the Hill House he found the language' of his 
adopted country inadequate to express his feelings, and 
could only relieve his mind by gazing at Jean, who wel- 
comed him, shaking her by both hands and repeating over 
and over again : 

“So — so — so. This then is the house of your respected 
family. The little one has done well, and for myself I 
feel proud to be here.” 

Very soon the hall was animated by as happy and lively a 
group as it had ever known. Polly had conducted Edith 
and the young people into the little boudoir of bygone 
days at the lower end of the hall, whence came merry 
peals of laughter and the sound of gay young voices, 
while Jean felt proud and happy to conduct Mr. Perry 
herself into the library, where Mrs. Mackenzie was wait- 
ing to be introduced, and, as can easily be imagined, very 
speedily made the old gentleman feel thoroughly at home. 

Jean had but one real anxiety upon her mind during 
that last day of her girl’s life at the Hill House. A letter 
had been delivered to her by the morning’s post which she 
had half dreaded to open, and so kept for two hours in her 
pocket untouched. Then, having nerved herself to open 
it, found it from Sandy Mackenzie — a few lines begging 
of her to think the best of him and thereby help to keep 
him straight. He had had an offer to go to North Caro- 
lina, but wanted to make everything clear and at rest 
before he started. Jean had felt both touched and troubled 
by the letter. She hardly knew whether to trust to Sandy’s 
sudden good intentions and resolves or not; yet certainly, 


304 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


as she thought, there could be no harm done by giving him 
a few words of encouragement and good cheer, and so it 
crossed Jean’s mind that, as a final act of her girl’s life 
in the old house at home, she would write Sandy a “free 
pardon” for his old offences, and a few words of encourage- 
ment to help him on in the new life he was beginning. Later 
on she could tell dear Mrs. Mackenzie all about it. Jean 
went into her own room for a quiet half hour in which to 
accomplish her generous design, and she tried to put her- 
self in the place of the arrogant, weak-minded young 
fellow, who had really meant to do no one any special 
injury, and yet, by his cowardice and sinful deceit, had 
wrought so much harm and useless pain. She had thought 
of enclosing money in her letter to him, but instead of 
that she wrote: 

“I want to tell you one thing, Sandy, which you can 
abide by. Wherever you go, if you can prove to us that 
you are doing well, and always striving even to do better, 
write here and consider me your banker for any amount you 
may really need. Mr. Carrington says that absolute 
poverty often creates temptation, and it will be a help to 
me to think that such an emergency need not come into 
your life. I am to be married to-morrow, and all our old 
friends are coming to the wedding. I shall think of you 
and so will your aunt, and hope to hear good news of 
you in the future. Remember me always as one who 
wishes to help you to the best and honorable side of life. 

“Jean Garnier.” 


XLIV. 


One bright crisp morning about a year after the events 
chronicled in the last chapter, Dr. Fraser tapped in his 
usual fashion on Mrs. Mackenzie’s parlor window, within 
which the genial lady of the house was sitting enjoying 
her favorite magazine, the leaves of which she had just 
finished cutting. In another moment the good Doctor 
was inside rubbing his hands together briskly after his 
fashion when lie had anything of importance to relate or 
some special confidence to bestow, and looked eager, for 
the widow’s curiosity to seem aroused. 

Mrs. Mackenzie was one of those delightful companions 
never above gratifying small whims of the kind, and 
accordingly her “ Well, ‘what now, Doctor?” was alert 
enough to satisfy the good man and make him doubly 
anxious to be talkative. 

“I’ve just come from the school committee,” announced 
the Doctor, taking his favorite easy chair. “ And I declare, 
my dear woman, Jean Carrington’s plan is working like 
a charm ! Like a charm / I can’t think how she ever 
thought it all out so skilfully ! upon my word, it is going 
to make an era in our lives, I assure you. I made a little, 
well, so to speak — report for the county paper, and I 
thought — ahem — if you have time, I’d just run it over with 
you before submitting it for publication.” 

“ Of course I’ve time,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, reaching 
out her hand for her never failing knitting ; “ and I’m glad 
you thought of me in it ; only remember, I can criticize, but 
I can’t write.” 

20 . 305 


306 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


“ Nonsense,” declared the Doctor. “ You could do — 
anything, I believe, Margaret, if you set about it.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie smiled indulgentl}", by no means averse 
to the good doctor’s sweeping commendation, but she 
shook her head slightly in deprecation of such wholesale 
praise. 

“ I can sympathize,” she said quietly. “ That is all the 
genius I have to offer.” 

“ Well, well,” declared the Doctor, producing a roll of 
manuscript and clearing his throat. “ This is better than 
the creative faculty half the time. Ahem.” 

There was a brief pause and then in his most oratorical 
manner, and with quite as much verve as though he were 
actually before the committee, Dr. Fraser began : 

“ In accepting the munificent bequest of Mr. and Mrs. 
Carrington of the Hill House, the township of Thornton 
has shown itself both appreciative and public-spirited. 
Mr. Carrington has long planned an endowment of some 
kind which should serve as a memorial to the late Colonel 
Dyker, and nothing more fitting than the school proposed 
could have been devised. Careful consideration of every 
point was gone over and the very best authorities consulted, 
before it was at last decided that a school in which fifteen 
pupils can be boarded and educated, with a view to develop- 
ing individual talent, making them self-supporting, but in 
no degree hampered by a sense of obligation, would be the 
most fitting tribute to Colonel Dyker’s memory. A sum 
large enough to make the building complete in every 
respect was first set aside; the site chosen is in every way 
worthy, both from a picturesque and salutary point of 
view ; it is near enough to the station, yet overlooks the 
most charming part of our fine country ; not an item but 
has been considered so that the students lives will be in 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


307 


every respect healthful, refined, and stimulated by the very 
best surroundings. Mrs. Carrington has for months given 
the school her personal care and attention, corresponding 
with various people of distinction in pliilanthropical and 
educational circles, and the result is something which we 
feel sure will be a precedent and a stimulus for other 
capitalists of like zeal and good will. 

“The building is divided into two sections, so that the 
actual school and class-rooms are on one side, and the 
dwelling on the other, thus making the home sense more 
complete for scholars and teachers. The pupils occupy 
separate rooms in every instance. These are small but 
perfect in their appointments, each being furnished in 
light woods, tasteful chintz draperies, and with certain 
touches calculated to inspire the occupant with a desire to 
keep it all in good order as well as to feel cheered by her 
own little dwelling-place. The dining room is perhaps 
the brightest part of the house, and although all its ap- 
pointments are of the simplest, yet they carry out the same 
idea of good taste and refinement. There are five small 
tables instead of one large one, each being provided with 
the best of linen, china, glass, etc., and as a means of edu- 
cation the pupils are to take charge of the room in turn : 
three ‘serving’ a week at a time. Although there are 
four excellent servants, the kitchen department is to be 
managed in the same wav — three of the young ladies serv- 
ing their time of a week therein, and being regularly in- 
structed in every branch of plain cooking. Gardening and 
dressmaking are among the practical branches taught, and 
special prizes awarded for proficiency in these departments. 
A percentage is allowed each girl who can cut, fit, and 
make her own garments, she receiving the amount which 
would be paid any seamstress, thereby not only encourag- 


308 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


ing good work, but enabling the student to have a little 
bank account of her own with which to start out on leav- 
ing the school for the more regular battle of life. Few 
rules are made, and the espionage is merely nominal, but 
the least infringement — the least evidence of anything dis- 
honorable on the part of a student is punished by sus- 
pension if not actual dismissal. A literary and musical 
society are included, and Mr. Carrington himself will 
superintend the drawing department. The 4 lady of the 
house,’ so to speak, since there is a regular housekeeper, 
is Mr. Carrington’s sister, and she will reside in the 
central building and be regarded as the 4 mother ’ or pre- 
siding genius of the establishment. As there are abso- 
lutely no fees or dues of any kind, appointments are made 
by special request, on carefully verified references and 
creditable examination, and it is expected that in every 
sense of the word the Dyker Academy will prove a suc- 
cess and worthy of its name.” 

44 Now, then,” said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair 
and letting his eye-glasses drop off while he regarded Mrs. 
Mackenzie critically, 44 anything more there? Jean can’t 
object to that — Mr. Carrington either? They’re so afraid, 
you know, of being praised ; but as I told Jean, everyone 
knows it’s a memorial to our dear old friend.” 

44 Certainly ! Well, I don’t see how you can improve it. 
By the way, I’ve had Sarah Rogers in here in one of her 
most elated moods. It seems Jean has asked her to 
superintend getting the house ready for the committee 
dinner, etc. Jean knows just what delights Sarah. She 
sent word to me as well, in a little private note, to consult 
with Sarah. How many people are we to expect?” 

44 Oh, fifteen or twenty ; but there” — the Doctor sprang 
to his feet and made a little rush toward the window as 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


309 


the sound of quickly rolling wheels in the roadway was 
heard — “there goes Jean herself up from the station. 
Well, I’ll be off — up there — and I suppose you’ll be around 
presently.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie nodded. 

“ Yes ; and then he shall know first what our pro- 
gramme is to be.” 

Left alone Mrs. Mackenzie indulged in one of her happy 
moods of meditation, reflection, and indeed, thanksgiving. 
Well did the good woman know that higher hands than 
hers had guided the leading strings of her beloved “chil- 
dren’s ” lives, yet it afforded her infinite satisfaction to have 
been able to help the course of affairs on in its success- 
ful direction, and her pride in the family itself had now 
no drawback. All had been done honorably, bravely, and 
well. Carrington, the one “stranger” in the group, had 
proved himself the very element most needed, since his 
disregard for what was merely conventional had toned 
down what might have proven affectation in some members 
of the famity. Polly was fast losing her little frivolities in 
a desire to be as like Jean as possible, the latter being at 
present her ideal of everything that was fine, charming, 
and fascinating ; and to be praised or commended by Car- 
rington was reward enough for Polly’s finest efforts ! He 
managed her admirably, knowing just when to be encour- 
aging, and when a trifle severe, and Jean looked on, 
delighted and proud, if a trifle secretly amused by Polly’s 
abject humility where Carrington was concerned. 

As for Jean herself, if her outer seeming was more com- 
posed and undemonstrative than formerly, it was simply 
because with her new life had come a tranquillity — a peace 
— an assurance born of happiness and content such as 
needed no eager “ watch and ward.” In her marriage she 


310 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


had realized what perfect comradeship can be between 
two people who, acting first for the higher good, the nobler 
and truer side of all things in a Christian life, understand 
equally each other’s smaller needs, cravings, hopes, and 
impulses. It was often commented upon as somewhat 
peculiar that, while Mr. and Mrs. Carrington seemed so 
ideally happy in their married life, they never obtruded it 
upon others, never for an hour forgot their friends or with- 
held their keenest sympathies from others as do so many 
absorbed in some one affection. 

But the explanation of this was very simple. Out of 
their abundance they both longed to give the “ measure 
running over,” and as Jean once said to Mrs. Mackenzie, 
she felt as though “ the peace of her own life was a steward- 
ship.” Once in a while the “ Bohemian,” as Carrington 
would say, was uppermost, and, like a pair of school children, 
they would steal away together on some “ wander,” usually 
choosing the most remote and primitive of country places 
where no hint of the “ madding crowd” could reach them. 
With their art and books, and the means of driving about, 
these brief holidays were all white letter ones, and kept 
them going and healthy in heart, mind, and body, better 
far, Jean always thought, than the occasional — very rare — 
excursions into the life of the gay social world. Gradually 
they both intended to drift away from what was merely 
“ society ” life, although an existence full of widest 
social charm and most generous hospitality was part of the 
Hill House creed and philosophy. There were no distinc- 
tions among their guests in one sense. The little village 
school-mistress was made as cordially welcome of an after- 
noon, entertained with as much respect and attention, as 
the richest of the county ladies. Few guests were more 
'welcome than the Morrises and the Perrys, and yet Jean 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


311 


and her little family contrived always to keep the quiet of 
their own home life , from time to time, entirely uninvaded. 
There were happy weeks of the winter when the little circle 
knew no interruption to their busy but quiet daily routine ; 
when the evenings would be full of domestic charm ; Jean 
and Miss Dyker and Polly engaged over some fancy work 
or sewing, while Carrington read aloud, or Linda “ made 
music ” — an element she was always ready to contribute, 
especially as a course of study in a Boston conservatory 
had been decided upon as the best outlet for her really pro- 
nounced genius. 

And while all things moved along in the old house with 
so much of calm prosperity, few of the family friends 
equalled Sarah Rogers in enjoyment of it all. Her hus- 
bands “position” as an insurance agent removed from her 
the painful idea that she had “married a pedler” to quote 
a phrase once flung at her by Peter Knapp in a brief 
moment of malice — or was it envy ? And on this particular 
occasion Mrs. Rogers was to take as prominent a part as 
her heart could desire in the opening of the academy. 
She and Miss Kate were staunch friends, their sympathies 
in household matters drawing them together, enthusiasm 
reaching its highest when there came the question of filling 
the store-room with a “supply” — Sarah and the little lady 
made an expedition into Albany by Jean’s request to 
“ put in ” whatever they considered necessary. No 
prouder woman walked or shopped or “ ordered ” that day 
than Mrs. William Rogers, and it would have been worthy 
Carrington’s pencil to see her criticising the labels on 
certain jams and potted meats, disdaining in her most 
superior manner whatever was not of the very best ! 

“It is for the Dyker Academy, please remember,” she 
observed once, with a withering glance at a young clerk 


312 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


wlio was showing her a “novelty” in marmalade. “I 
cannot order anything but what I know all about,” and it 
would have been an immense satisfaction to Sarah had she 
known of the awe she inspired, and the way in which the 
clerk later referred, to “Mrs. llogers of the Hill House!” 
Crescent Cottage — the name of Sarah’s dwelling being 
unknown — or overlooked by his dazzled mind. 

Sarah’s heart and womanly ambition, as may well be 
imagined, would not have been satisfied had not Crescent 
Cottage boasted a nursery in which her infant son, a 
remarkably fat, and truth to tell rather heavy , infant of 
two months reigned supreme, “minded” by a young girl 
from the village, to whom Mrs. Rogers was a pattern of 
elegance and fashion. True, mistress and maid were on 
rather free terms of social intercourse when alone, Maggie’s 
society being by no means despised on the long winter 
afternoons or evenings when Mr. Rogers was away, and as 
Sarah kept no other “ help,” there was the more excuse for 
it. As we know, our heroine needed an “ audience.” In 
honest, simple-hearted, talkative little Maggie she found 
one quite to her satisfaction, the girl being really deeply 
attached to her showy, kind-hearted mistress. 

It is not, I am sure, always in real life that things turn 
out so satisfactorily, yet after all, if was not in any way 
undeserved happiness. Sarah had gone through an ordeal, 
more fiery than anyone could ever know. Even now a 
recollection of it would flash across her mind with the half 
sickened feeling we experience in recalling some wonderful 
escape — and it was at such times that the young wife 
would clasp her child closely in her arms and in her own 
heart, if not actually with her very lips, thank the Divine 
Master who, seeing her temptation, had freed her from her 
danger. 


A FAMILY DILEMMA . 


313 


Jean came flitting down the main hall of the Hill House, 
opening the door of her husband’s study with a bright 
happy look on her face — a sparkle in her soft eyes which 
gave token of her pleasure in the work on hand. 

Carrington was busy at his writing table, but turned the 
instant Jean’s step sounded, putting up his hand to meet 
hers as it rested on his shoulder. 

“Well, young woman, what now? Remember our 
guests will arrive in about half an hour.” 

“ I know. That is just why I’m bothering you,” said 
Jean. “ There is so much I must ask you about.” 

“ Go ahead.” He laid aside his pen and rose, looking 
down now upon her with affectionate amusement. “ I 
wonder how many women have to consult their husbands 
as often as my wife does.” 

She smiled, but with the little wistful look which was 
like the Jean of old. 

“Ho you mind ? ” she demanded. 

Carrington nodded. 

“ Yes ; I certainly do mind,” he retorted; “so much, my 
child, that if the day comes when you leave me out of your 
counsels I will — well, take the matter into court to enquire 
into my own sanity.” 

“Then behave yourself and listen. I’ve just been 
arranging something I’m not quite sure about — but come 
and look at it — and you will know if it is all right.” 

He followed, wondering what new idea she had de- 
veloped, as she led the way down the hall and into the 
quaint old room so long sacred to the late master of the 
house. There on a pedestal she had hung and wreathed the 
Colonel’s portrait in the fairest blossoms and deepest green 
the conservatory or late gardens could furnish forth. The 
Colonel’s fine, clear-cut, melancholy face looked out upon 


314 


A FAMILY DILEMMA. 


them as though he fain would speak and commend what 
his “ children,” were doing, but what touched Carrington 
more even than the way in which Jean had wreathed her 
cousin’s portrait for this happy day, was a little banner of 
silk on which, with her own hand, she had painted in gold 
and scarlet that sweetest of texts : 

“Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come 
unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

The sunshine of the morning creeping in filled the old 
room with a soft clear radiance, enclosing in its warmth 
the master’s picture, the glowing blossoms, and rich ferns, 
and as well the figures of the two standing before it, 
who had certainly fulfilled the Colonel’s unsigned will. 


THE END. 


The 

Famous 

Castlemon 

Books. 

BY 

Harry 

Castlemon. 



Specimen Cover ol the Gunboat 
Series. 


No author of the present day has become a greater favorite with boys than 
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* # *Any volume sold separately. 


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